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THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 
AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 
DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 
SOCIETIES 


PS2250 
.E6l 

1*55 

v.2 


UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


00041345053 


This  book  is  due  at  the  WALTER  R.  DAVIS  LIBRARY  on 
the  last  date  stamped  under  "Date  Due."  If  not  on  hold  it 
may  be  renewed  by  bringing  it  to  the  library. 


DATE 
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DATE 
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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2014 


https://archive.org/details/poems00long_1 


POEMS, 


PS  JZJ, 

irss 


HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW 


TICKNOR    AND  FIELDS. 


M  DCCC  LV. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1850,  by 
H.  W.  Longfellow. 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massac huseds 


f#  I  ., 


C  1M  BRIDGE: 


^  STEREOTYPED  AND  PRINTED  BY 

METCALF    AND  COMPANY, 

PRINTERS  TO  THE  UNIVERSITY. 


CONTENTS  OF  VOL.  II. 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

PAGE 

Carillon       .       .       .       •             .  1 

The  Belfry  of  Bruges     .  9 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

A  Gleam  of  Sunshine         .  .19 

^he  Arsenal  at  Springfield   .                    ,  23 

Nuremberg   27 

The  Norman  Baron  .....  34 

Rain  in  Summer   39 

To  a  Child   45 

The  Occultation  of  Orion  .       .       .       .  .  56 

The  Bridge       .......  61 

To  the  Driving  Cloud  66 


iv  CONTENTS. 


SONGS. 

Seaweed   73 

The  Day  is  done,   77 

Afternoon  in  February   81 

-JTo  an  Old  Danish  Song-Book    ...  83 
Walter  von  der  Vogelweide        .  .88 

Drinking  Song   92 

The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs      .              .  96 

The  Arrow  and  the  Song        ....  102 

SONNETS. 

The  Evening  Star   107 

Autumn   109 

Dante   Ill 

TRANSLATIONS. 

The  Hemlock-Tree   115 

Annie  of  Tharaw   117 

The  Statue  over  the  Cathedral  Door    .  .121 

The  Legend  of  the  Crossbill  .  .  .  123 
The  sea  hath  its  pearls   .       .       •  .125 

Poetic  Aphorisms   127 

Curfew   137 


CONTENTS.  V 

EVANGELINE. 

Part  the  First  .   147 

Part  the  Second    .       .       .       .       .       .  219 

THE  SEASIDE  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 

Dedication  .       .       .   303 

BY  THE  SEASIDE. 

The  Building  of  the  Ship                  .       .  309 

The  Evening  Star   332 

The  Secret  of  the  Sea  .      •      •       .       .  334 

Twilight   337 

Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  .....  339 

The  Lighthouse   343 

The  Fire  of  Drift-wood        ....  347 
BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

Resignation   353 

The  Builders   357 

Sand  of  the  Desert  in  an  Hour-glass     .  360 

Birds  of  Passage    ......  364 

The  Open  Window   367 


vi 


CONTENTS. 


King  Witlaf's  Drinking-horn       .       .       .  369 

Gaspar  Becerra   372 

Pegasus  in  Pound   375 

Tegner's  Drapa   379 

Sonnet     .   384 

The  Singers   386 

Suspiria   389 

Hymn   391 

TRANSLATIONS. 

The  Blind  Girl  of  Castel-Cuille        .       .  395 

A  Christmas  Carol   420 

Notes   427 


THE 

BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

AND 

OTHER  POEMS. 

1  84  6. 


CARILLON. 


In  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges } 
In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city, 
As  the  evening  shades  descended, 
Low  and  loud  and  sweetly  blended, 
Low  at  times  and  loud  at  times, 
And  changing  like  a  poet's  rhymes, 
Rang  the  beautiful  wild  chimes 
From  the  Belfry  in  the  market 
Of  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges. 


4 


POEMS. 


Then,  with  deep  sonorous  clangor 
Calmly  answering  their  sweet  anger, 
When  the  wrangling  bells  had  ended, 
Slowly  struck  the  clock  eleven, 
And,  from  out  the  silent  heaven, 
Silence  on  the  town  descended. 
Silence,  silence  everywhere, 
On  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 
Save  that  footsteps  here  and  there 
Of  some  burgher  home  returning, 
By  the  street  lamps  faintly  burning, 
For  a  moment  woke  the  echoes 
Of  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges. 

But  amid  my  broken  slumbers 
Still  I  heard  those  magic  numbers, 
As  they  loud  proclaimed  the  flight 
And  stolen  marches  of  the  night ; 
Till  their  chimes  in  sweet  collision 
Mingled  with  each  wandering  vision, 


CARILLON. 


Mingled  with  the  fortune -telling 
Gipsy-bands  of  dreams  and  fancies, 
Which  amid  the  waste  expanses 
Of  the  silent  land  of  trances 
Have  their  solitary  dwelling. 
All  else  seemed  asleep  in  Bruges, 
In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 

And  I  thought  how  like  these  chimes 
Are  the  poet's  airy  rhymes, 
All  his  rhymes  and  roundelays, 
His  conceits,  and  songs,  and  ditties, 
From  the  belfry  of  his  brain, 
Scattered  downward,  though  in  vain, 
On  the  roofs  and  stones  of  cities  ! 
For  by  night  the  drowsy  ear 
Under  its  curtains  cannot  hear, 
And  by  day  men  go  their  ways, 
Hearing  the  music  as  they  pass, 


6 


POEMS. 


But  deeming  it  no  more,  alas  ! 
Than  the  hollow  sound  of  brass. 

Yet  perchance  a  sleepless  wight, 

Lodging  at  some  humble  inn 

In  the  narrow  lanes  of  life, 

When  the  dusk  and  hush  of  night 

Shut  out  the  incessant  din 

Of  daylight  and  its  toil  and  strife, 

May  listen  with  a  calm  delight 

To  the  poet's  melodies, 

Till  he  hears,  or  dreams  he  hears, 

Intermingled  with  the  song, 

Thoughts  that  he  has  cherished  long  ; 

Hears  amid  the  chime  and  singing 

The  bells  of  his  own  village  ringing, 

And  wakes,  and  finds  his  slumberous  eyes 

Wet  with  most  delicious  tears. 


CARILLON. 


Thus  dreamed  I,  as  by  night  I  lay 
In  Bruges,  at  the  Fleur-de-Ble, 
Listening  with  a  wild  delight 
To  the  chimes  that,  through  the  night, 
Rang  their  changes  from  the  Belfry 
Of  that  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES. 


11 


1 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES. 


In  the  market-place  of  Bruges  stands  the  belfry 

old  and  brown ; 
Thrice  consumed  and  thrice  rebuilded,  still  it 
^watches  o'er  the  town. 

As  the  summer  morn  was  breaking,  on  that  lofty 

tower  I  stood, 
And  the  world  threw  off  the  darkness,  like  the 

weeds  of  widowhood. 


12 


POEMS. 


Thick  with  towns  and  hamlets  studded,  and  with 

streams  and  vapors  gray, 
Like  a  shield  embossed  with  silver,  round  and 

vast  the  landscape  lay. 

At  my  feet  the  city  slumbered.  From  its  chim- 
neys, here  and  there, 

Wreaths  of  snow-white  smoke,  ascending,  van- 
ished, ghost-like,  into  air. 

Not  a  sound  rose  from  the  city  at  that  early 

morning  hour, 
But  I  heard  a  heart  of  iron  beating  in  the  ancient 

tower. 

From  their  nests  beneath  the  rafters  sang  the 

swallows  wild  and  high  ; 
And  the  world,  beneath  me  sleeping,  seemed 

more  distant  than  the  sky. 


I 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES.  13 

Then  most  musical  and  solemn,  bringing  back 

the  olden  times, 
With  their  strange,  unearthly  changes  rang  the 

melancholy  chimes, 

Like  the  psalms  from  some  old  cloister,  when 

the  nuns  sing  in  the  choir ; 
And  the  great  bell  tolled  among  them,  like  the 

chanting  of  a  friar. 

Visions  of  the  days  departed,  shadowy  phantoms 

filled  my  brain ; 
They  who  live  in  history  only  seemed  to  walk 

the  earth  again ; 

All  the  Foresters  of  Flanders,  —  mighty  Bald- 
win Bras  de  Fer, 

Lyderick  du  Bucq  and  Cressy,  Philip,  Guy  de 
Dampierre. 


14 


P0E3IS. 


I  beheld  the  pageants  splendid,  that  adorned 

those  days  of  old ; 
Stately  dames,  like  queens  attended,  knights  who 

bore  the  Fleece  of  Gold ; 

Lombard  and  Venetian  merchants  with  deep- 
laden  argosies ; 

Ministers  from  twenty  nations ;  more  than  royal 
pomp  and  ease. 

I  beheld  proud  Maximilian,  kneeling  humbly  on 
the  ground  ; 

I  beheld  the  gentle  Mary,  hunting  with  her  hawk 
and  hound  ; 

And  her  lighted  bridal-chamber,  where  a  duke 

slept  with  the  queen, 
And  the  armed  guard  around  them,  and  the 

sword  unsheathed  between. 


1 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES.  15 

I  beheld  the  Flemish  weavers,  with  Namur  and 

Juliers  bold, 
Marching  homeward  from  the  bloody  battle  of 

the  Spurs  of  Gold ; 

Saw  the  fight  at  Minnewater,  saw  the  White 

Hoods  moving  west, 
Saw  great  Artevelde  victorious  scale  the  Golden 

Dragon's  nest. 

And  again  the  whiskered  Spaniard  all  the  land 

with  terror  smote  ; 
And  again  the  wild  alarum  sounded  from  the 

tocsin's  throat ; 

Till  the  bell  of  Ghent  responded  o'er  lagoon  and 

dike  of  sand, 
u  I  am  Roland  !  I  am  Roland  !  there  is  victory 

in  the  land  '  " 


16 


POEMS. 


Then  the  sound  of  drums  aroused  me.  The 

awakened  city's  roar 
Chased  the  phantoms  I  had  summoned  back  into 

their  graves  once  more. 

Hours  had  passed  away  like  minutes ;  and,  before 
I  was  aware, 

Lo  !  the  shadow  of  the  belfry  crossed  the  sun- 
illumined  square. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


* 


1 


19 


A  GLEAM  OF  SUNSHINE. 


This  is  the  place.    Stand  still,  my  steed, 

Let  me  review  the  scene, 
And  summon  from  the  shadowy  Past 

The  forms  that  once  have  been. 

The  Past  and  Present  here  unite 

Beneath  Time's  flowing  tide 
Like  footprints  hidden  by  a  brook, 

But  seen  on  either  side. 


20 


POEMS. 


Here  runs  the  highway  to  the  town  ; 

There  the  green  lane  descends, 
Through  which  I  walked  to  church  with  thee, 

O  gentlest  of  my  friends  ! 

The  shadow  of  the  linden-trees 

Lay  moving  on  the  grass  ; 
Between  them  and  the  moving  boughs, 

A  shadow,  thou  didst  pass. 

Thy  dress  was  like  the  lilies, 

And  thy  heart  as  pure  as  they : 
One  of  God's  holy  messengers 

Did  walk  with  me  that  day. 

I  saw  the  branches  of  the  trees 

Bend  down  thy  touch  to  meet, 
The  clover-blossoms  in  the  grass 

Rise  up  to  kiss  thy  feet. 


A  GLEAM  OF  SUNSHINE.  21 

"  Sleep,  sleep  to-day,  tormenting  cares, 

Of  earth  and  folly  born  !  " 
Solemnly  sang  the  village  choir 

On  that  sweet  Sabbath  morn. 

Through  the  closed  blinds  the  golden  sun 

Poured  in  a  dusty  beam, 
Like  the  celestial  ladder  seen 

By  Jacob  in  his  dream. 

And  ever  and  anon,  the  wind, 

Sweet-scented  with  the  hay, 
Turned  o'er  the  hymn-book's  fluttering  leaves 

That  on  the  window  lay. 

Long  was  the  good  man's  sermon, 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me ; 
For  he  spake  of  Ruth  the  beautiful, 

And  still  I  thought  of  thee. 


22 


POEMS. 


Long  was  the  prayer  he  uttered, 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me  ; 
For  in  my  heart  I  prayed  with  him, 

And  still  I  thought  of  thee. t 

But  now,  alas  !  the  place  seems  changed  ; 

Thou  art  no  longer  here  : 
Part  of  the  sunshine  of  the  scene 

With  thee  did  disappear. 

Though  thoughts,  deep-rooted  in  my  heart, 
Like  pine-trees  dark  and  high, 

Subdue  the  light  of  noon,  and  breathe 
A  low  and  ceaseless  sigh  ; 

This  memory  brightens  o'er  the  past, 

As  when  the  sun,  concealed 
Behind  some  cloud  that  near  us  hangs, 

Shines  on  a  distant  field. 


23 


THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD. 


This  is  the  Arsenal.  From  floor  to  ceiling, 
Like  a  huge  organ,  rise  the  burnished  arms  ; 

But  from  their  silent  pipes  no  anthem  pealing 
Startles  the  villages  with  strange  alarms. 

Ah  !  what  a  sound  will  rise,  how  wild  and  dreary. 
When  the  death-angel  touches  those  swift  keys  ! 

What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
Will  mingle  with  their  awful  symphonies  ! 


24 


POEMS. 


I  hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus, 
The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan, 

Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone  before  us, 
In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon  hammer, 
Through  Cimbric  forest  roars  the  Norseman's 
song, 

And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamor, 

O'er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar  gong. 

T  hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  palace 
Wheels  out  his  battle-bell  with  dreadful  din, 

And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 

Beat  the  wild  war-drums  made  of  serpent's  skin ; 

The  tumult  of  each  sacked  and  burning  village  ; 

The  shout  that  every  prayer  for  mercy  drowns  ; 
The  soldiers'  revels  in  the  midst  of  pillage  ; 

The  wail  of  famine  in  beleaguered  towns  ; 


THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD.  25 

The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrenched  asunder, 
The  rattling  musketry,  the  clashing  blade  ; 

And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder, 
The  diapason  of  the  cannonade. 

Is  it,  O  man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 
With  such  accursed  instruments  as  these, 

Thou  drownest  Nature's  sweet  and  kindly  voices, 
And  jarrest  the  celestial  harmonies  ? 

Were  half  the  power,  that  fills  the  world  with  terror, 
Were  half  the  wealth,  bestowed  on  camps  and 
courts, 

Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from  error, 
There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  nor  forts  : 

The  warrior's  name  would  be  a  name  abhorred  ! 

And  every  nation,  that  should  lift  again 
Its  hand  against  a  brother,  on  its  forehead 

Would  wear  forevermore  the^curse  of  Cain  ! 


26 


POEMS. 


Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  generations, 
The  echoing  sounds  grow  fainter  and  then  cease  ; 

And  like  a  bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibrations, 
I  hear  once  more  the  voice  of  Christ  say, 
"  Peace!" 


Peace  !  and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  portals 
The  blast  of  War's  great  organ  shakes  the 
skies  ! 

But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 
The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 


27 


NUREMBERG. 


Is  the  valley  of  the  Pegnitz,  wheie  across  broad 

meadow-lands 
Rise  the  blue  Franconian  mountains,  Nuremberg, 

the  ancient,  stands 

Quaint  old  town  of  toil  and  traffic,  quaint  old 

town  of  art  and  song, 
Memories  haunt  thy  pointed  gables,    like  the 

rooks  that  round  them  throng  : 


28 


POEMS. 


Memories  of  the  Middle  Ages,  when  the  em- 
perors, rough  and  bold, 

Had  their  dwelling  in  thy  castle,  time-defying, 
centuries  old  ; 

And  thy  brave  and  thrifty  burghers  boasted,  in 

their  uncouth  rhyme, 
That  their  great  imperial  city  stretched  its  hand 

through  every  clime. 

In  the  court-yard  of  the  castle,  bound  with  many 

an  iron  band, 
Stands  the  mighty  linden   planted  by  Queen 

Cunigunde's  hand  ; 

On  the  square  the  oriel  window,  where  in  old 
heroic  days 

Sat  the  poet  Melchior  singing  Kaiser  Maximil- 
ian's praise. 


NUREMBERG. 


29 


Everywhere  I  see  around  me  rise  the  wondrous 

world  of  Art  : 
Fountains  wrought  with  richest  sculpture  standing 

in  the  common  mart ; 

And  above  cathedral  doorways  saints  and  bishops 

carved  in  stone, 
By  a  former  age  commissioned  as  apostles  to  our 

own. 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Sebald  sleeps  enshrined 

his  holy  dust, 
And  in  bronze  the  Twelve  Apostles  guard  from 

age  to  age  their  trust ; 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Lawrence  stands  a  pix 

of  sculpture  rare, 
Like  the  foamy  sheaf  of  fountains,  rising  through 

the  painted  air. 


30 


POEMS. 


I 


Here,  when  Art  was  still  religion,  with  a  simple, 
reverent  heart, 

Lived  and  labored  Albrecht  Durer,  the  Evange- 
list of  Art ; 

Hence  in  silence  and  in  sorrow,  toiling  still  with 
busy  hand, 

Like  an  emigrant  he  wandered,  seeking  for  the 
Better  Land. 

Emigravit  is  the  inscription  on  the  tomb-stone 

where  he  lies  ; 
Dead  he  is  not,  — but  departed,  —  for  the  artist 

never  dies. 

Fairer  seems  the  ancient  city,  and  the  sunshine 

seems  more  fair, 
That  he  once  has  trod  its  pavement,  that  he 

once  has  breathed  its  air  ! 


NUREMBERG. 


31 


Through  these  streets  so  broad  and  stately,  these 

obscure  and  dismal  lanes, 
Walked  of  yore  the  Mastersingers,  chanting  rude 

poetic  strains. 

From  remote  and  sunless  suburbs,  came  they  to 

the  friendly  guild, 
Building  nests  in  Fame's  great  temple,  as  m 

spouts  the  swallows  build. 

As  the  weaver  plied  the  shuttle,  wove  he  too  the 

mystic  rhyme, 
x\nd  the  smith  his  iron  measures  hammered  to 

the  anvil's  chime  ; 

Thanking  God,  whose  boundless  wisdom  makes 

the  flowers  of  poesy  bloom 
In  the  forge's  dust  and  cinders,  in  the  tissues  ol 

the  loom. 


32 


POEMS. 


Here  Hans  Sachs,  the  cobbler-poet,  laureate  of 

the  gentle  craft, 
Wisest  of  the  Twelve  Wise  Masters,  in  huge 

folios  sang  and  laughed. 

But  his  house  is  now  an  ale-house,  with  a  nicely 

sanded  floor, 
And  a  garland  in  the  window,  and  his  face  above 

the  door  ; 

Painted  by  some  humble  artist,  as  in  Adam 

Puschman's  song, 
As  the  old  man  gray  and  dove-like,  with  his  great 

beard  white  and  long. 

And  at  night  the  swart  mechanic  comes  to  drown 
his  cark  and  care, 

Quaffing  ale  from  pewter  tankards,  in  the  mas- 
ter's antique  chair. 


NUREMBERG. 


33 


Vanished  is  the  ancient  splendor,  and  before  my 
dreamy  eye 

Wave  these  mingling  shapes  and  figures,  like  a 
faded  tapestry. 

Not  thy  Councils,  not  thy  Kaisers,  win  for  thee 

the  world's  regard ; 
But  thy  painter,  Albrecht  Durer,  and  Hans 

Sachs,  thy  cobbler-bard. 

Thus,  O  Nuremberg,  a  wanderer  from  a  region 
far  away, 

As  he  paced  thy  streets  and  court-yards,  sang  in 
thought  his  careless  lay  : 

Gathering  from  the  pavement's  crevice,  as  a 

floweret  of  the  soil, 
The  nobility  of  labor,  —  the  long  pedigree  of 

toil. 

3 


THE  NORMAN  BARON. 

Dans  les  moments  de  la  vie  ou  la  reflexion  devient  plus  calme  et  plus 
profonde,  ou  l'interet  et  l'avarice  parlent  moins  haut  que  la  raison,  dans 
lea  instants  de  chagrin  domestique,  de  maladie,  et  de  peril  de  mort,  lea 
nobles  se  repentirent  de  posseder  des  serfs,  comme  d'une  chose  peu  agre- 
able  &  DieUj  qui  avait  cree  tous  les  hommes  a  son  image. 

Thierry:  Concuete  de  l'Angleterre. 

In  his  chamber,  weak  and  dying, 
Was  the  Norman  baron  lying  ; 
Loud,  without,  the  tempest  thundered, 
And  the  castle -turret  shook. 


THE  NORMAN  BARON. 


35 


In  this  fight  was  Death  the  gainer, 
Spite  of  vassal  and  retainer, 
And  the  lands  his  sires  had  plundered, 
Written  in  the  Doomsday  Book. 

By  his  bed  a  monk  was  seated, 
Who  in  humble  voice  repeated 
Many  a  prayer  and  pater-noster, 
From  the  missal  on  his  knee  ; 

And,  amid  the  tempest  pealing, 
Sounds  of  bells  came  faintly  stealing, 
Bells,  that,  from  the  neighbouring  kloster, 
Rang  for  the  Nativity. 

In  the  hall,  the  serf  and  vassal 

Held,  that  night,  their  Christmas  wassail ; 

Many  a  carol,  old  and  saintly, 

Sang  the  minstrels  and  the  waits. 


POEMS. 


And  lo  loud  these  Saxon  gleemen 
Sang  to  slaves  the  songs  of  freemen, 
That  the  storm  was  heard  but  faintly, 
Knocking  at  the  castle-gates. 

Till  at  length  the  lays  they  chaunted 
Reached  the  chamber  terror-haunted, 
Where  the  monk,  with  accents  holy, 
Whispered  at  the  baron's  ear. 

Tears  upon  his  eyelids  glistened, 
As  he  paused  awhile  and  listened, 
And  the  dying  baron  slowly 

Turned  his  weary  head  to  hear. 

"  Wassail  for  the  kingly  stranger 
Born  and  cradled  in  a  manger  ! 
King,  like  David,  priest,  like  Aaron, 
Christ  is  born  to  set  us  free ! 55  — 


THE  NORMAN  BARON. 


37 


And  the  lightning  showed  the  sainted 
Figures  on  the  casement  painted, 
And  exclaimed  the  shuddering  baron, 
"  Miserere,  Domine  !  " 

In  that  hour  of  deep  contrition, 
He  beheld,  with  clearer  vision, 
Through  all  outward  show  and  fashion, 
Justice,  the  Avenger,  rise. 

All  the  pomp  of  earth  had  vanished. 
Falsehood  and  deceit  were  banished, 
Reason  spake  more  loud  than  passion. 
And  the  truth  wore  no  disguise. 

Every  vassal  of  his  banner, 
Every  serf  born  to  his  manor, 
All  those  wronged  and  wretched  creatures, 
By  his  hand  were  freed  again 


POEMS. 


And,  as  on  the  sacred  missal 
He  recorded  their  dismissal, 
Death  relaxed  his  iron  features, 

And  the  monk  replied,  "  Amen 

Many  centuries  have  been  numbered 
Since  in  death  the  baron  slumbered 
By  the  convent's  sculptured  portal, 
Mingling  with  the  common  dust : 

But  the  good  deed,  through  the  ages 
Living  in  historic  pages, 
Brighter  grows  and  gleams  immortal, 
Unconsumed  by  moth  or  rust. 


39 


RAIN  IN  SUMMER. 


How  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 
After  the  dust  and  heat, 
In  the  broad  and  fiery  street, 
In  the  narrow  lane, 
How  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 

How  it  clatters  along  the  roofs, 
Like  the  tramp  of  hoofs  ! 


POENS, 


How  it  gushes  and  struggles  out 

From  the  throat  of  the  overflowing  spout 

Across  the  window  pane 

It  pours  and  pours  ; 

And  swift  and  wide, 

With  a  muddy  tide, 

Like  a  river  down  the  gutter  roars 

The  rain,  the  welcome  rain ! 

The  sick  man  from  his  chamber  looks 

At  the  twisted  brooks  ; 

He  can  feel  the  cool 

Breath  of  each  little  pool ; 

His  fevered  brain 

Grows  calm  again, 

And  he  breathes  a  blessing  on  the  rain. 

From  the  neighbouring  school 
Come  the  boys, 


RAIN  IN  SUMMER. 


With  more  than  their  wonted  noise 

And  commotion  ; 

And  down  the  wet  streets 

Sail  their  mimic  fleets, 

Till  the  treacherous  pool 

Engulfs  them  in  its  whirling 

And  turbulent  ocean. 

In  the  country,  on  every  side, 

Where  far  and  wide, 

Like  a  leopard's  tawny  and  spotted  hide, 

Stretches  the  plain, 

To  the  dry  grass  and  the  drier  grain 

How  welcome  is  the  rain  ! 

In  the  furrowed  land 
The  toilsome  and  patient  oxen  stand ; 
Lifting  the  yoke-encumbered  head, 
With  their  dilated  nostrils  spread, 


POEMS. 


They  silently  inhale 

The  clover-scented  gale, 

And  the  vapors  that  arise 

From  the  well  watered  and  smoking  soil 

For  this  rest  in  the  furrow  after  toil 

Their  large  and  lustrous  eyes 

Seem  to  thank  the  Lord, 

More  than  man's  spoken  word. 

Near  at  hand, 

From  under  the  sheltering  trees, 
The  farmer  sees 

His  pastures,  and  his  fields  of  grain, 

As  they  bend  their  tops 

To  the  numberless  beating  drops 

Of  the  incessant  rain. 

He  counts  it  as  no  sin 

That  he  sees  therein 

Only  his  own  thrift  and  gain. 


RAIN  IN  SUMMER. 


43 


These,  and  far  more  than  these, 
The  Poet  sees  ! 
He  can  behold 
Aquarius  old 

Walking  the  fenceless  fields  of  air  ; 

And  from  each  ample  fold 

Of  the  clouds  about  him  rolled 

Scattering  everywhere 

The  showery  rain, 

As  the  farmer  scatters  his  grain. 

He  can  behold 
Things  manifold 

That  have  not  yet  been  wholly  told,  — 

Have  not  been  wholly  sung  nor  said. 

For  his  thought,  that  never  stops, 

FoJows  the  water-drops 

Down  to  the  graves  of  the  dead, 

Down  through  chasms  and  gulfs  profound, 


POEMS. 


To  the  dreary  fountain-head 
Of  lakes  and  rivers  under  ground  ; 
And  sees  them,  when  the  rain  is  done, 
On  the  bridge  of  colors  seven 
Climbing  up  once  more  to  heaven, 
Opposite  the  setting  sun. 

Thus  the  Seer, 

With  vision  clear. 

Sees  forms  appear  and  disappear, 

In  the  perpetual  round  of  strange, 

Mysterious  change 

From  birth  to  death,  from  death  to  birth. 

From  earth  to  heaven,  from  heaven  to  earth  ; 

Till  glimpses  more  sublime 

Of  things,  unseen  before, 

Unto  his  wondering  eyes  reveal 

The  Universe,  as  an  immeasurable  wheel 

Turning  for  evermore 

In  the  rapid  and  rushing  river  of  Time, 


45 


TO  A  CHILD. 


Dear  child !  how  radiant  on  thy  mother's  knee, 

With  merry-making  eyes  and  jocund  smiles, 

Thou  gazest  at  the  painted  tiles, 

Whose  figures  grace, 

With  many  a  grotesque  form  and  face, 

The  ancient  chimney  of  thy  nursery  ! 

The  lady  with  the  gay  macaw, 

The  dancing  girl,  the  grave  bashaw 

With  bearded  lip  and  chin  ; 

And,  leaning  idly  o'er  his  gate, 


POEMS. 


Beneath  the  imperial  fan  of  state, 
The  Chinese  mandarin. 

With  what  a  look  of  proud  command 
Thou  shakest  in  thy  little  hand 
The  coral  rattle  with  its  silver  bells, 
Making  a  merry  tune  ! 
Thousands  of  years  in  Indian  seas 
That  coral  grew,  by  slow  degrees, 
Until  some  deadly  and  wild  monsoon 
Dashed  it  on  CoromandePs  sand  ! 
Those  silver  bells 
Reposed  of  yore, 
As  shapeless  ore, 
Far  down  in  the  deep-sunken  wells 
Of  darksome  mines, 
In  some  obscure  and  sunless  place, 
Beneath  huge  Chimborazo's  base, 
Or  Potosi's  o'erhanging  pines  ! 


TO  A  CHILD. 

4nd  thus  for  thee,  O  little  child, 

Through  many  a  danger  and  escape, 

The  tall  ships  passed  the  stormy  cape  ; 

For  thee  in  foreign  lands  remote, 

Beneath  the  burning,  tropic  clime, 

The  Indian  peasant,  chasing  the  wild  goat 

Himself  as  swift  and  wild, 

In  falling,  clutched  the  frail  arbute, 

The  fibres  of  whose  shallow  root, 

Uplifted  from  the  soil,  betrayed 

The  silver  veins  beneath  it  laid, 

The  buried  treasures  of  the  pirate,  Time. 

But,  lo  !  thy  door  is  left  ajar  ! 

Thou  nearest -footsteps  from  afar  ! 

And,  at  the  sound, 

Thou  turnest  round 

With  quick  and  questioning  eyes, 

Like  one,  who,  in  a  foreign  land, 


48 


POEMS. 


Beholds  on  every  hand 

Some  source  of  wonder  and  surprise  ! 

And,  restlessly,  impatiently, 

Thou  strivest,  strugglest,  to  be  free. 

The  four  walls  of  tLy  nursery 

Are  now  like  prison  walls  to  thee. 

No  more  thy  mother's  smiles, 

No  more  the  painted  tiles, 

Delight  thee,  nor  the  playthings  on  the  floor, 

That  won  thy  little,  beating  heart  before  ; 

Thou  strugglest  for  the  open  door. 

Through  these  once  solitary  halls 
Thy  pattering  footstep  falls/ 
The  sound  of  thy  merry  voice 
Makes  the  old  walls 
Jubilant,  and  they  rejoice 
With  the  joy  of  thy  young  heart, 
O'er  the  light  of  whose  gladness 


TO  A  CHILD. 


49 


No  shadows  of  sadness 

From  the  sombre  background  of  memory  star';. 

Once,  ah,  once,  within  these  walls, 
One  whom  memory  oft  recalls, 
The  Father  of  his  Country,  dwelt. 
And  yonder  meadows  broad  and  damp 
The  fires  of  the  besieging  camp 
Encircled  with  a  burning  belt. 
Up  and  down  these  echoing  stairs, 
Heavy  with  the  weight  of  cares,  ' . 
Sounded  his  majestic  tread  ; 
Yes,  within  this  very  room 
Sat  he  in  those  hours  of  gloom, 
Weary  both  in  heart  and  head. 

But  what  kre  these  grave  thoughts  to  thee  ? 
Out,  out !  into  the  open  air  ! 
Thy  only  dream  is  liberty, 
Thou  carest  little  how  or  where. 


50 


POEMS. 


I  see  thee  eager  at  thy  play, 

Now  shouting  to  the  apples  on  the  tree, 

With  cheeks  as  round  and  red  as  they ; 

And  now  among  the  yellow  stalks, 

Among  the  flowering  shrubs  and  plants, 

As  restless  as  the  bee. 

Along  the  garden  walks, 

The  tracks  of  thy  small  carriage- wheels  I  trace  ; 

And  see  at  every  turn  how  they  efface 

Whole  villages  of  sand-roofed  tents, 

That  rise  like  golden  domes 

Above  the  cavernous  and  secret  homes 

Of  wandering  and  nomadic  tribes  of  ants. 

Ah,  cruel  little  Tamerlane, 

Who,  with  thy  dreadful  reign, 

Dost  persecute  and  overwhelm 

These  hapless  Troglodytes  of  thy  realm  ! 

What !  tired  already  !  with  those  suppliant  looks, 
And  voice  more  beautiful  than  a  poet's  books, 


TO  A  CHILD. 


51 


Or  murmuring  sound  of  water  as  it  flows, 
Thou  comest  back  to  parley  with  repose  ! 
This  rustic  seat  in  the  old  apple-tree, 
With  its  o'erhanging  golden  canopy 
Of  leaves  illuminate  with  autumnal  hues, 
And  shining  with  the  argent  light  of  dews, 
Shall  for  a  season  be  our  place  of  rest. 
Beneath  us,  like  an  oriole's  pendent  nest, 
From  which  the  laughing  birds  have  taken  wing, 
By  thee  abandoned,  hangs  thy  vacant  swing. 
Dream-like  'the  waters  of  the  river  gleam  ; 
A  sailless  vessel  drops  adown  the  stream, 
And  like  it,  to  a  sea  as  wide  and  deep, 
Thou  driftest  gently  down  the  tides  of  sleep 

O  child  !  O  new-born  denizen 
Of  life's  great  city  !  on  thy  head 
The  glory  of  the  morn  is  shed, 
Like  a  celestial  benison  ! 


POEMS. 


Here  at  the  portal  thou  dost  stand, 

And  with  thy  little  hand 

Thou  openest  the  mysterious  gate 

Into  the  future's  undiscovered  land. 

I  see  its  valves  expand, 

As  at  the  touch  of  Fate  ! 

Into  those  realms  of  love  and  hate, 

Into  that  darkness  blank  and  drear, 

By  some  prophetic  feeling  taught, 

I  launch  the  bold,  adventurous  thought, 

Freighted  with  hope  and  fear  ; 

As  upon  subterranean  streams, 

In  caverns  unexplored  and  dark, 

Men  sometimes  launch  a  fragile  bark, 

Laden  with  flickering  fire, 

And  watch  its  swift-receding  beams, 

Until  at  length  they  disappear, 

And  in  the  distant  dark  expire. 


TO  A  CHILD. 


By  what  astrology  of  fear  or  hope 
Dare  I  to  cast  thy  horoscope  ! 
Like  the  new  moon  thy  life  appears ; 
A  little  strip  of  silver  light, 
And  widening  outward  into  night 
The  shadowy  disk  of  future  years  ; 
And  yet  upon  its  outer  rim, 
A  luminous  circle,  faint  and  dim, 
And  scarcely  visible  to  us  here, 
Rounds  and  completes  the  perfect  sphere 
A  prophecy  and  intimation, 
A  pale  and  feeble  adumbration, 
Of  the  great  world  of  light,  that  lies 
Behind  all  human  destinies. 

Ah  !  if  thy  fate,  with  anguish  fraught, 
Should  be  to  wet  the  dusty  soil 
With  the  hot  tears  and  sweat  of  toil,  — 
To  struggle  with  imperious  thought, 


POEMS. 


Until  the  overburdened  brain. 
Weary  with  labor,  faint  with  pain, 
Like  a  jarred  pendulum,  retain 
Only  its  motion,  not  its  power,  — 
Remember,  in  that  perilous  hour, 
When  most  afflicted  and  oppressed, 
From  labor  there  shall  come  forth  rest. 

And  if  a  more  auspicious  fate 
On  thy  advancing  steps  await, 
Still  let  it  ever  be  thy  pride 
To  linger  by  the  laborer's  side  ; 
With  words  of  sympathy  or  song 
To  cheer  the  dreary  march  along 
Of  the  great  army  of  the  poor, 
O'er  desert  sand,  o'er  dangerous  moor. 
Nor  to  thyself  the  task  shall  be 
Without  reward  ;  for  thou  shalt  learn 
The  wisdom  early  to  discern 
True  beauty  in  utility  ; 


TO  A  CHILD. 


As  great  Pythagoras  of  yore. 
Standing  beside  the  blacksmith's  door, 
And  hearing  the  hammers,  as  they  smote 
The  anvils  with  a  different  note, 
Stole  from  the  varying  tones,  that  hung 
Vibrant  on  every  iron  tongue, 
The  secret  of  the  sounding  wire, 
And  formed  the  seven-chorded  lyre. 

Enough  !  I  will  not  play  the  Seer  ; 
I  will  no  longer  strive  to  ope 
The  mystic  volume,  where  appear 
The  herald  Hope,  forerunning  Fear, 
And  Fear,  the  pursuivant  of  Hope. 
Thy  destiny  remains  untold  ; 
For,  like  Acestes'  shaft  of  old, 
The  swift  thought  kindles  as  it  flies. 
And  burns  to  ashes  in  the  skies. 


56 


THE  OCCULTATION  OF  ORION, 


I  saw j  as  in  a  dream  sublime, 
The  balance  in  the  hand  of  Time. 
O'er  East  and  West  its  beam  impended ; 
And  day,  with  all  its  hours  of  light, 
Was  slowly  sinking  out  of  sight, 
While,  opposite,  the  scale  of  night 
Silently  with  the  stars  ascended. 

Like  the  astrologers  of  eld, 
In  that  bright  vision  I  beheld 


THE  OCCULTATION  OF  ORION. 


57 


Greater  and  deeper  mysteries. 

I  saw,  with  its  celestial  keys, 

Its  chords  of  air,  its  frets  of  fire, 

The  Samian's  great  iEolian  lyre, 

Rising  through  all  its  sevenfold  bars, 

From  earth  unto  the  fixed  stars. 

And  through  the  dewy  atmosphere, 

Not  only  could  I  see,  but  hear, 

Its  wondrous  and  harmonious  strings, 

In  sweet  vibration,  sphere  by  sphere, 

From  Dian's  circle  light  and  near, 

Onward  to  vaster  and  wider  rings, 

Where,  chanting  through  his  beard  of  snows. 

Majestic,  mournful,  Saturn  goes, 

And  down  the  sunless  realms  of  space 

Reverberates  the  thunder  of  his  bass. 

Beneath  the  sky's  triumphal  arch 
This  music  sounded  like  a  march, 


58 


POEMS. 


&nd  with  its  chorus  seemed  to  b« 
Preluding  some  great  tragedy. 
Sirius  was  rising  in  the  east ; 
And,  slow  ascending  one  by  one, 
The  kindling  constellations  shone. 
Begirt  with  many  a  blazing  star, 
Stood  the  great  giant  Algebar, 
Orion,  hunter  of  the  beast ! 
His  sword  hung  gleaming  by  his  side. 
And,  on  his  arm,  the  lion's  hide 
Scattered  across  the  midnight  air 
The  golden  radiance  of  its  hair. 

The  moon  was  pallid,  but  not  faint 
And  beautiful  as  some  fair  saint, 
Serenely  moving  on  her  way 
In  hours  of  trial  and  dismay. 
As  if  she  heard  the  voice  of  God, 
Unharmed  with  naked  feet  she  trod 


THE  OCCULTATION  OF  ORION. 

Upon  the  hot  and  burning  stars, 
As  on  the  glowing  coals  and  bars 
That  were  to  prove  her  strength,  and  try 
Her  holiness  and  her  purity. 

Thus  moving  on;  with  silent  pace, 
And  triumph  in  her  sweet,  pale  face, 
She  reached  the  station  of  Orion. 
Aghast  he  stood  in  strange  alarm ! 
And  suddenly  from  his  outstretched  arm 
Down  fell  the  red  skin  of  the  lion 
Into  the  river  at  his  feet. 
His  mighty  club  no  longer  beat 
The  forehead  of  the  bull ;  but  he 
Reeled  as  of  yore  beside  the  sea, 
When,  blinded  by  (Enopion, 
He  sought  the  blacksmith  at  his  forge. 
And,  climbing  up  the  mountain  gorge, 
Fixed  his  blank  eyes  upon  the  sun. 


60 


POEMS. 


Then,  through  the  silence  overhead, 
An  angel  with  a  trumpet  said, 
u  Forevermore,  forevermore, 
The  reign  of  violence  is  o'er  !  " 
And,  like  an  instrument  that  flings 
Its  music  on  another's  strings, 
The  trumpet  of  the  angel  cast 
Upon  the  heavenly  lyre  its  blast, 
And  on  from  sphere  to  sphere  the  words 
Reechoed  down  the  burning  chords,  — 
<c  Forevermore,  forevermore, 
The  reign  of  violence  is  o'er  !  " 


61 


THE  BRIDGE. 


I  stood  on  the  bridge  at  midnight, 
As  the  clocks  were  striking  the  hour, 

And  the  moon  rose  o'er  the  city, 
Behind  the  dark  church-tower, 

I  saw  her  bright  reflection 

In  the  waters  under  me, 
Like  a  golden  goblet  falling 

And  sinking  into  the  sea. 


POEMS. 


And  far  in  the  hazy  distance 

Of  that  lovely  night  in  June, 
The  blaze  of  the  flaming  furnace 

Gleamed  redder  than  the  moon. 

Among  the  long,  black  rafters 

The  wavering  shadows  lay, 
And  the  current  that  came  from  the  ocean 

Seemed  to  lift  and  bear  them  away  ; 

As,  sweeping  and  eddying  through  them, 

Rose  the  belated  tide, 
And,  streaming  into  the  moonlight, 

The  seaweed  floated  wide* 

And  like  those  waters  rushing 

Among  the  wooden  piers, 
A  flood  of  thoughts  came  o'er  me 

That  filled  my  eyes  wTith  tears. 


THE  BRIDGE. 


How  often,  O,  how  often, 
In  the  days  that  had  gone  by, 

I  had  stood  on  that  bridge  at  midnight 
And  gazed  oil  that  wave  and  sky  * 

How  often,  O,  how  often, 

I  had  wished  that  the  ebbing  tide 

Would  bear  me  away  on  its  bosom 
O'er  the  ocean  wild  and  wide  ! 

For  my  heart  was  hot  and  restless, 
And  my  life  was  full  of  care, 

And  the  burden  laid  upon  me 
•Seemed  greater  than  I  could  bear. 

But  now  it.  has  fallen  from  me, 

It  is  buried  in  the  sea  ; 
And  only  the  sorrow  of  others 

Throws  its  shadow  over  me. 


POEMS. 


Yet  whenever  I  cross  the  river 
On  its  bridge  with  wooden  piers, 

Like  the  odor  of  brine  from  the  ocean 
Comes  the  thought  of  other  years. 

And  I  think  how  many  thousands 
Of  care-encumbered  men, 

Each  bearing  his  burden  of  sorrow, 
Have  crossed  the  bridge  since  then. 

I  see  the  long  procession 

Still  passing  to  and  fro, 
The  young  heart  hot  and  restless, 

And  the  old  subdued  and  slow  ! 

And  forever  and  forever, 
As  long  as  the  river  flows, 

As  long  as  the  heart  has  passions. 
As  long  as  life  has  woes  ; 


THE  BRIDGE. 


The  moon  and  its  broken  reflection 
And  its  shadows  shall  appear, 

As  the  symbol  of  love  in  heaven, 
And  its  wavering  image  here. 


66 


TO  THE  DRIVING  CLOUD. 


Gloomy  and  dark  art  thou,  O  chief  of  the  mighty 

Omawhaws  ; 
Gloomy  and  dark,  as  the  driving  cloud,  whose 

name  thou  hast  taken  ! 
Wrapt  in  thy  scarlet  blanket,  I  see  thee  stalk 

through  the  city's 
Narrow  and  populous  streets,  as  once  by  the  mai 

gin  of  rivers 


TO  THE  DRIVING  CLOUD. 


67 


Stalked  those  birds  unknown,  that  have  left  us 

only  their  footprints. 
What 5  in  a  few  short  years,  will  remain  of  thy 

race  but  the  footprints  ? 

How  canst  thou  walk  in  these  streets,  who  hast 

trod  the  green  turf  of  the  prairies  ? 
How  canst  thou  breathe  in  this  air,  who  hast 

breathed  the  sweet  air  of  the  mountains  i 
Ah !  't  is  in  vain  that  with  lordly  looks  of  disdain 

thou  dost  challenge 
Looks  of  dislike  in  return,  and  question  these 

walls  and  these  pavements, 
Claiming  the  soil  for  thy  hunting-grounds,  while 

down-trodden  millions 
Starve  in  the  garrets  of  .  Europe,  and  cry  from  it? 

caverns  that  they,  too, 
Have  been  created  heirs  of  tlje  earth,  and  claim 

its  division  ! 


68 


P0E3IS. 


Back,  then,  back  to  thy  woods  in  the  regions  west 

of  the  Wabash  ! 
There  as  a  monarch  thou  reignest.    In  autumn 

the  leaves  of  the  maple 
Pave  the  floors  of  thy  palace-halls  with  gold,  and 

in  summer 

Pine-trees  waft  through  its  chambers  the  odorous 

breath  of  their  branches. 
There  thou  art  strong  and  great,  a  hero,  a  tamer 

of  horses  ! 

There  thou  chasest  the  stately  stag  on  the  banks 

of  the  Elk-horn, 
Or  by  the  roar  of  the  Running- Water,  or  where 

the  Omaw^haw 
Calls  thee,  and  leaps  through  the  wild  ravine  like 

a  brave  of  the  Blackfeet ! 

Hark  !  what  murmurs  arise  from  the  heart  of  those 
mountainous  deserts  ? 


TO  THE  DRIVING  CLOUD. 


69 


Is  it  the  cry  of  the  Foxes  and  Crows,  or  the 

mighty  Behemoth, 
Who,  unharmed,  on  his  tusks  once  caught  the 

bolts  of  the  thunder, 
And  now  lurks  in  his  lair  to  destroy  the  race  of 

the  red  man  ? 
Far  more  fatal  to  thee  and  thy  race  than  the 

Crows  and  the  Foxes, 
Far  more  fatal  to  thee  and  thy  race  than  the  tread 

of  Behemoth, 
Lo  !  the  big  thunder-canoe,  that  steadily  breasts 

the  Missouri's 
Merciless  current !  and  yonder,  afar  on  the  prair- 
ies, the  camp-fires 
Gleam  through  the  night ;  and  the  cloud  of  dust 

in  the  gray  of  the  daybreak 
Marks  not  the  buffalo's  track,  nor  the  Mandan's 

dexterous  horse-race  ; 
It  is  a  caravan,  whitening  the  desert  where  dwell 

the  Camanches  ! 


70 


POEMS. 


Ha  !  how  the  breath  of  these  Saxonsand  Celts, 
like  the  blast  of  the  east- wind, 

Drifts  evermore  to  the  west  the  scanty  smokes  oi 
thy  wigwams  ! 


SONGS 


73 


SEAWEED. 


When  descends  on  the  Atlantic 

The  gigantic 
Storm-wind  of  the  equinox, 
Landward  in  his  wrath  he  scourges 

The  toiling  surges, 
Laden  with  seaweed  from  the  rocks 


POEMS. 


From  Bermuda's  reefs ;  from  edges 

Of  sunken  ledges, 
In  some  far-off,'  bright  Azore  ; 
From  Bahama,  and  the  dashing. 

Silver-flashing 
Surges  of  San  Salvador  ; 

From  the  tumbling  surf,  that  buries 

The  Orkneyan  skerries, 
Answering  the  hoarse  Hebrides  ; 
And  from  wrecks  of  ships,  and  drifting 

Spars,  uplifting 
On  the  desolate,  rainy  seas  ; — - 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  main  ; 
Till  in  sheltered  coves,  and  reaches 

Of  sandy  beaches, 
All  have  found  repose  again. 


SEAWEED. 


75 


So  when  storms  of  wild  emotion 

Strike  the  ocean 
Of  the  poet's  soul,  ere  long 
From  each  cave  and  rocky  fastness, 

In  its  vastness, 
Floats  some  fragment  of  a  song  : 

From  the  far-off  isles  enchanted, 

Heaven  has  planted 
With  the  golden  fruit  of  Truth  ; 
From  the  flashing  surf,  whose  vision 

Gleams  Elysian 
In  the  tropic  clime  of  Youth  ; 

From  the  strong  Will,  and  the  Endeavour 

That  forever 
Wrestles  with  the  tides  of  Fate  ; 
From  the  wreck  of  Hopes  far-scattered, 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating  waste  and  desolate  ;  — 


76 


I 


Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 

On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  heart ; 
Till  at  length  in  books  recorded, 

They,  like  hoarded 
Household  words,  no  more  depar* 


77 


THE  DAY  IS  DONE. 


The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist, 
And  a  feeling1  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me, 

That  my  soul  cannot  resist : 


POEMS. 


A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 
Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling. 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 
Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 

Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavour ; 
And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 


THE  DAY  IS  DONE. 


Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice, 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice.  . 


POEMS. 


And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares,  that  infest  the  day, 

Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 


81 


AFTERNOON  IN  FEBRUARY. 


The  day  is  ending, 
The  night' is  descending  ; 
The  marsh  is  frozen, 
The  river  dead. 

Through  clouds  like  ashes 
The  rejl  sun  flashes 
On  village  windows 
That  glimmer  red. 

6 


PfEMS. 


The  snow  recommences ; 
The  buried  fences 
Mark  no  longer 

The  road  o'er  the  plain ; 

While  through  the  meadows, 
Like  fearful  shadows, 
Slowly  passes 
A  funeral  train. 

The  bell  is  pealing, 
And  every  feeling 
Within  me  responds 
To  the  dismal  knell ; 

Shadows  are  trailing, 
My  heart  is  bewailing 
And  tolling  within 
Like  a  funeral  bell. 


83 


TO  AN  OLD  DANISH  SONG-BOOK. 


Welcome,  my  old  friend, 
Welcome  to  a  foreign  fireside, 
While  the  sullen  gales  of  autumn 
Shake  the  windows. 

The  ungrateful  world 
Has,  it  seems,  dealt  harshly  with  thee, 
Since,  beneath  the  skies  of  Denmark, 
First  I  met  thee. 


POEMS. 


There  are  marks  of  age, 
There  are  thumb-marks  on  thy  margin. 
Made  by  hands  that  clasped  thee  rudely, 
At  the  alehouse. 

Soiled  and  dull  thou  art  ; 
Yellow  are  thy  time-worn  pages, 
As  the  russet,  rain-molested 
Leaves  of  autumn. 

Thou  art  stained  with  wine 
Scattered  from  hilarious  goblets, 
As  these  leaves  with  the  libations 
Of  Olympus. 

Yet  dost  thou  recall 
Days  departed,  half-forgotten, 
When  in  dreamy  youth  I  wandered 
By  the  Baltic,  — 


TO  AN  OLD  DANISH  SONG-BOOK.  85 

When  I  paused  to  hear 
The  old  ballad  of  King  Christian 
Shouted  from  suburban  taverns 
In  the  twilight. 

Thou  recallest  bards, 
Who,  in  solitary  chambers, 
And  with  hearts  by  passion  wasted, 
Wrote  thy  pages. 

Thou  recallest  homes 
Where  thy  songs  of  love  and  friendship 
Made  the  gloomy  Northern  winter 
Bright  as  summer. 

Once  some  ancient  Scald, 
In  his  bleak,  ancestral  Iceland, 
Chanted  staves  of  these  old  ballads 
To  the  Vikings. 


POEMS. 

Once  in  Elsinore, 
At  the  court  of  old  King  Hamlet, 
Yorick  and  his  boon  companions 
Sang  these  ditties. 

Once  Prince  Frederick's  Guard 
Sang  them  in  their  smoky  barracks  ;  ■ 
Suddenly  the  English  cannon 
Joined  the  chorus  ! 

Peasants  in  the  field, 
Sailors  on  the  roaring  ocean, 
Students,  tradesmen,  pale  mechanics 
All  have  sung  them. 

Thou  hast  been  their  friend  ; 
They,  alas  !  have  left  thee  friendless 
Yet  at  least  by  one  warm  fireside 
Art  thou  welcome. 


TO  AN  OLD  DANISH  SONG-BOOK. 

And,  as  swallows  build 
In  these  wide,  old-fashioned  chimneys, 
So  thy  twittering  songs  shall  nestle 
In  my  bosom,  — 

Quiet,  close,  and  warm, 
Sheltered  from  all  molestation. 
And  recalling  by  their  voices 
Youth  and  travel. 


88 


WALTER  VON  DEB,  VOGELWEIDE. 


Vogelweid  the  Minnesinger, 
When  he  left  this  world  of  ours, 

Laid  his  body  in  the  cloister, 

Under  Wiirtzburg's  minster  towers. 

And  he  gave  the  monks  his  treasures, 
Gave  them  all  with  this  behest  : 

They  should  feed  the  birds  at  noontide 
Daily  on  his  place  of  rest ; 


WALTER  VON  DER  VOGELWEIDE.  89 


Saying,  "From  these  wandering  minstrels 
I  have  learned  the  art  of  song  ; 

Let  me  now  repay  the  lessons 

They  have  taught  so  well  and  long." 

Thus  the  bard  of  love  departed  ; 

And,  fulfilling  his  desire, 
On  his  tomb  the  birds  were  feasted 

By  the  children  of  the  choir. 

Day  by  day,  o'er  tower  and  turret, 

In  foul  weather  and  in  fair, 
Day  by  day,  in  vaster  numbers. 

Flocked  the  poets  of  the  air. 

On  the  tree  whose  heavy  branches 

Overshadowed  all  the  place, 
On  the  pavement,  on  the  tombstone, 

On  the  poet's  sculptured  face, 


90 


POEMS. 


On  the  cross-bars  of  each  window, 

On  the  lintel  of  each  door, 
They  renewed  the  War  of  Wartburg, 

Which  the  bard  had  fought  before. 

There  they  sang  their  merry  carols, 
Sang  their  lauds  on  every  side  ; 

And  the  name  their  voices  uttered 
Was  the  name  of  Vogelweid. 

Till  at  length  the  portly  abbot 

Murmured,  "  Why  this  waste  of  food  ? 
Be  it  changed  to  loaves  henceforward 

For  our  fasting  brotherhood." 

Then  in  vain  o'er  tower  and  turret, 
From  the  walls  and  woodland  nests, 

When  the  minster  bells  rang  noontide, 
Gathered  the  unwelcome  guests. 


WALTER  VON  I>£R  VOGELWEIDE. 


91 


Then  in  vain,  with  cries  discordant, 
Clamorous  round  the  Gothic  spire, 

Screamed  the  feathered  Minnesingers 
For  the  children  of  the  choir. 

Time  has  long  effaced  the  inscriptions 
On  the  cloister's  funeral  stones, 

And  tradition  only  tells  us 

Where  repose  the  poet's  bones. 

But  around  the  vast  cathedral, 
By  sweet  echoes  multiplied, 

Still  the  birds  repeat  the  legend, 
And  the  name  of  Vogelweid 


92 


DRINKING  SONG. 

INSCRIPTION  FOR  AN  ANTIQUE  PITCHER. 

Come,  old  friend  !  sit  down  and  listen  ! 

From  the  pitcher,  placed  between  us, 
How  the  waters  laugh  and  glisten 

In  the  head  of  old  Silenus  ! 

Old  Silenus,  bloated,  drunken, 
Led  by  his  inebriate  Satyrs  ; 

On  his  breast  his  head  is  sunken, 
Vacantly  he  leers  and  chatters. 


DRINKING  SONG. 


Fauns  with  youthful  Bacchus  follow ; 

Ivy  crowns  that  brow  supernal 
As  the  forehead  of  Apollo, 

And  possessing  youth  eternal. 

Round  about  him,  fair  Bacchantes, 
Bearing  cymbals,  flutes,  and  thyrses, 

Wild  from  Naxian  groves,  or  Zante's 
Vineyards,  sing  delirious  verses. 

Thus  he  won,  through  all  the  nations, 
Bloodless  victories,  and  the  farmer 

Bore,  as  trophies  and  oblations, 

Vines  for  banners,  ploughs  for  armor. 

Judged  by  no  o'erzealous  rigor, 
Much  this  mystic  throng  expresses  : 

Bacchus  was  the  type  of  vigor, 
And  Silenus  of  excesses. 


POEMS. 


These  are  ancient  ethnic  revels, 
Of  a  faith  long  since  forsaken  ; 

Now  the  Satyrs,  changed  to  devils, 
Frighten  mortals  wine-o'ertaken. 

Now  to  rivulets  from  the  mountains 
Point  the  rods  of  fortune-tellers  ; 

Youth  perpetual  dwells  in  fountains,  — - 
Not  in  flasks,  and  casks,  and  cellars. 

Claudius,  though  he  sang  of  flagons 
And  huge  tankards  filled  with  Rhenish, 

From  that  fiery  blood  of  dragons 
Never  would  his  own  replenish. 

Even  Redi,  though  he  chaunted 
Bacchus  in  the  Tuscan  valleys, 

Never  drank  the  wine  he  vaunted 
In  his  dithyrambic  sallies. 


DRINKING  SONG. 


Then  with  water  fill  the  pitcher 
Wreathed  about  with  classic  fables  ; 

Ne'er  Falernian  threw  a  richer 
Light  upon  Lucullus'  tables. 

Come,  old  friend,  sit  down  and  listen  ! 

As  it  passes  thus  between  us, 
How  its  wavelets  laugh  and  glisten 

In  the  head  of  old  Silenus  ! 


9b 


THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS. 


L'e'ternite'  est  une  pendule,  dont  le  balancier  dit  et  redit  sans  cesse  ces 
deux  mots  seulement,  dans  le  silence  des  tombeaux:  "  Tou jours !  jamais! 
Jamais!  tou  jours!" 


JACQUES  BRIDAINE. 


Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street 
Stands  the  old-fashioned  country-seat. 
Across  its  antique  portico 
Tall  poplar-trees  their  shadows  throw 


THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS. 


9^ 


And  from  its  station  in  the  hall 
An  ancient  timepiece  says  to  all,  — 
"  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 

Halfway  up  the  stairs  it  stands, 
And  points  and  beckons  with  its  hands 
From  its  case  of  massive  oak, 
Like  a  monk,  who,  under  his  cloak, 
Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas  ! 
With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pass,  — 
u  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 

By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light ; 
But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night, 
Distinct  as  a  passing  footstep's  fall, 
It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall, 


7 


POEMS. 


Along  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor. 
And  seems  to  say,  at  each  chamber-door, 
u  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 

Through  days  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth, 
Through  days  of  death  and  days  of  birth, 
Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
Of  changeful  time,  unchanged  it  has  stood 
And  as  if,  like  God,  it  all  things  saw, 
It  calmly  repeats  those  words  of  awe,  — 
"  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 

In  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  Hospitality ; 
His  great  fires  up  the  chimney  roared  ; 
The  stranger  feasted  at  his  board  ; 


THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS. 


99 


But,  like  the  skeleton  at  the  feast, 
That  warning  timepiece  never  ceased,  — 
u  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 

There  groups  of  merry  children  played, 
There  youths  and  maidens  dreaming  strayed  : 
O  precious  hours  !  O  golden  prime, 
And  affluence  of  love  and  time  ! 
Even  as  a  miser  counts  his  gold, 
Those  hours  the  ancient  timepiece  told,  — 
"  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 

From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white, 
The  bride  came  forth  on  her  wedding  night ; 
There,  in  that  silent  room  below, 
The  dead  lay  in  his  shroud  of  snow  ; 


f  OEMS. 


And  in  the  hush  that  followed  the  prayer, 
Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair,  — 
"  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 

All  are  scattered  now  and  fled, 
Some  are  married,  some  are  dead ; 
And  when  I  ask,  with  throbs  of  pain, 
"  Ah  !  when  shall  they  all  meet  again  ? 
As  in  the  days  long-since  gone  by, 
The  ancient  timepiece  makes  reply,  - 
cc  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  " 

Never  here,  forever  there, 
Where  all  parting,  pain,  and  care, 
And  death,  and  time  shall  disappear,  - 
Forever  there,  but  never  here  ! 


THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS. 


The  horologe  of  Eternity 
Sayeth  this  incessantly,  — 
44  Forever  —  never  ! 
Never  —  forever  !  n 


102 


THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG. 


I  shot  an  arrow  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where  ; 
For,  so  swiftly  it  flew,  the  sight 
Could  not  follow  it  in  its  flight. 

I  breathed  a  song  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where  ; 
For  who  has  sight  so  keen  and  stron 
That  it  can  follow  the  flight  of  song 


THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG. 

Long,  long  afterward,  in  an  oak 
I  found  the  arrow,  still  unbroke  ; 
And  the  song,  from  beginning  to  end, 
I  found  again  in  the  heart  of  a  Wend. 


SONNETS. 


107 

/  • 


THE  EVENING  STAR. 


Lo"!  in  the  painted  oriel  of  the  West, 
Whose  panes  the  sunken  sun  incarnadines, 
Like  a  fair  lady  at  her  casement,  shines 
The  evening  star,  the  star  of  love  and  rest ! 
And  then  anon  she  doth  herself  divest 
Of  all  her  radiant  garments,  and  reclines 
Behind  the  sombre  screen  of  yonder  pines, 
With  slumber  and  soft  dreams  of  love  oppressed. 


108 


POEMS. 


O  my  beloved,  my  sweet  Hesperus  ! 

My  morning  and  my  evening  star  of  love  ! 

My  best  and  gentlest  lady  !  even  thus, 

As  that  fair  planet  in  the  sky  above, 

Dost  thou  retire  unto  thy  rest  at  night, 

And  from  thy  darkened  window  fades  the  light. 


109 


AUTUMN. 


Thou  comest,  Autumn,  heralded  by  the  rain, 
With  banners,  by  great  gales  incessant  fanned, 
Brighter  than  brightest  silks  of  Samarcand, 
And  stately  oxen  harnessed  to  thy  wain  ! 
Thou  standest,  like  imperial  Charlemagne, 
Upon  thy  bridge  of  gold  ;  thy  royal  hand 
Outstretched  with  benedictions  o'er  the  land, 
Blessing  the  farms  through  all  thy  vast  domain 


110 


POEMS. 


Thy  shield  is  the  red  harvest  moon,  suspended 
So  long  beneath  the  heaven's  o'erhanging  eaves  , 
Thy  steps  are  by  the  farmer's  prayers  attended  ; 
Like  flames  upon  an  altar  shine  the  sheaves  ; 
And,  following  thee,  in  thy  ovation  splendid, 
Thine  almoner,  the  wind,  scatters  the  golden 
leaves  ! 


Ill 


DANTE. 


Tuscan,  that  wanderest  through  the  realms  of 
gloom, 

With  thoughtful  pace,  and  sad,  majestic  eyes, 
Stern  thoughts  and  awful  from  thy  soul  arise, 
Like  Farinata  from  his  fiery  tomb. 
Thy  sacred  song  is  like  the  trump  ol  doom ; 
Yet  in  thy  heart  what  human  sympathies, 
What  soft  compassion  glows,  as  in  the  skies 
The  tender  stars  their  clouded  lamps  relume  ! 


112 


POEMS. 


Methinks  I  see  thee  stand,  with  pallid  cheeks, 
By  Fra  Hilario  in  his  diocese, 
As  up  the  convent- walls,  in  golden  streaks, 
The  ascending  sunbeams  mark  the  day's  decrease  ; 
And,  as  he  asks  what  there  the  stranger  seeks, 
Thy  voice  along  the  cloister  whispers,  u  Peace  ! ?' 


TRANSLATIONS 


115 


THE  HEMLOCK  TREE. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

O  hemlock  tree  !  O  hemlock  tree  !  how  faith* 
ful  are  thy  branches  ! 
Green  not  alone  in  summer  time, 
But  in  the  winter- s  frost  and  rime  1 
O  hemlock  tree!  O  hemlock  tree!  how  faithful 
are  thy  branches  ! 


116 


POEMS. 


O  maiden  fair !  O  maiden  fair !  how  faithless  is 
thy  bosom ! 
To  love  me  in  prosperity, 
And  leave  me  in  adversity ! 
O  maiden  fair!  O  maiden  fair!  how  faithless  is 
thy  bosom ! 

The  nightingale,  the  nightingale,  thou  tak'st  for 
thine  example  ! 
So  long  as  summer  laughs  she  sings. 
But  m  the  autumn  spreads  her  wings. 
The  nightingale,  the  nightingale,  thou  tak'st  for 
thine  example ! 

The  meadow  brook,  the  meadow  brook,  is  mir-v 
ror  of  thy  falsehood  ! 
It  flows  so  long  as  falls  the  rain, 
In  drought  its  springs  soon  dry  again. 
The  meadow  brook,  the  meadow  brook,  is  mir- 
ror of  thy  falsehood  ! 


117 


ANNIE  OF  THARAW, 

FROM  THE  LOW  GERMAN  OF  SIMON  DACH. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  true  love  of  old, 
She  is  my  life,  and  my  goods,  and  my  gold 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  her  heart  once  again 
To  me  ha&  surrendered  in  joy  and  in  pain, 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  riches,  my  good, 
Thou,  O  my  soul,  my  flesh  and  my  blood  ! 


118 


POEMS. 


Then  come  the  wild  weather,  come  sleet  or 

come  snow, 
We  will  stand  by  each  other,  however  it  blow. 

Oppression,  and  sickness,  and  sorrow,  and  pain 
Shall  be  to  our  true  love  as  links  to  the  chain. 

As  the  palm-tree  standeth  so  straight  and  so  tall, 
The  more  the  hail  beats,  and  the  more  the  rains 
fall,— 

So  love  in  our  hearts  shall  grow  mighty  and 
strong, 

Through  crosses,  through  sorrows,  through  mani- 
fold wrong. 

Shouldst  thou  be  torn  from  me  to  wander  alone 
In  a  desolate  land  where  the  sun  is  scarce 
known,  — - 


ANNIE  OF  THARAW. 


119 


Through  forests  I  '11  follow,  and  where  the  sea 
flows, 

Through  ice,  and  through  iron,  through  armies 
of  foes. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  light  and  my  sun, 
The  threads  of  our  two  lives  are  woven  in 
one. 

Whate'er  I  have  bidden  thee  thou  hast  obeyed, 
Whatever  forbidden  thou  hast  not  gainsaid. 

How  in  the  turmoil  of  life  can  love  stand, 
Where  there  is  not  one  heart,  and  one  mouth, 
and  one  hand  ? 

Some  seek  for  dissension,  and   trouble,  and 
strife ; 

Like  a  dog  and  a  cat  live  such  man  and  wife. 


120 


POEMS. 


Annie  of  Tharaw,  such  is  not  our  love  ; 
Thou  art  my  lambkin,  my  chick,  and  my  dove. 

Whatever  my  desire  is,  in  thine  may  be  seen  ; 
I  am  king  of  the  household,  and  thou  art  its 
queen. 

It  is  tills,  O  my  Annie,  my  heart's  sweetest  rest, 
That  makes  of  us  twain  but  one  soul  in  one 
breast. 

This  turns  to  a  heaven  the  hut  where  we  dwell ; 
While  mangling  soon  changes  a  home  to  a  hell. 


121 


THE  STATUE  OVER  THE  CATHEDRAL 
DOOR. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  JULIUS  MOSEN. 

Forms  of  saints  and  kings  are  standing 

The  cathedral  door  above  ; 
Yet  I  saw  but  one  among  them 

Who  hath  soothed  my  soul  with  love* 

In  his  mantle,  —  wound  about  him, 
As  their  robes  the  sowers  wind,  — 

Bore  he  swallows  and  their  fledglings, 
Flowers  and  weeds  of  every  kind. 


122 


POEMS. 


And  so  stands  he  calm  and  childlike, 

High  in  wind  and  tempest  wild  ; 
O,  were  I  like  him  exalted, 

I  would  be  like  him,  a  child  ! 

And  my  songs, — green  leaves  and  blossoms,— 
To  the  doors  of  heaven  would  bear, 

Calling,  even  in  storm  and  tempest, 
Round  me  still  these  birds  of  air. 


123 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  CROSSBILL. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OP  JULIUS  MOSEN. 

On  the  cross  the  dying  Saviour 
Heavenward  lifts  his  eyelids  calm, 

Feels,  but  scarcely  feels,  a  trembling 
In  his  pierced  and  bleeding  palm. 

And  by  all  the  world  forsaken, 
Sees  he-how  with  zealous  care 

At  the  ruthless  nail  of  iron 
A  little  bird  is  striving  there. 


POEMS. 


Stained  with  blood  and  never  tiring, 
With  its  beak  it  doth  not  cease, 

From  the  cross 't  would  free  the  Saviour, 
Its  Creator's  Son  release. 

And  the  Saviour  speaks  in  mildness  : 

Blest  be  thou  of  all  the  good  1 
Bear,  as  token  of  this  moment, 
Marks  of  blood  and  holy  rood  !  " 

And  that  bird  is  called  the  crossbill  ; 

Covered  all  with  blood  so  clear, 
In  the  groves  of  pine  it  singeth 

Songs,  like  legends,  strange  to  hear. 


125 


THE  SEA  HATH  ITS  PEARLS. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  HEINRICH  HEINE. 

The  sea  hath  its  pearls, 
The  heaven  hath  its  stars  ; 

But  my  heart,  my  heart, 
My  heart  hath  its  love. 

Great  are  the  sea  and  the  heaven  ; 

Yet  greater  is  my  heart, 
And  fairer  than  pearls  and  stars 

Flashes  and  beams  my  love 


P0E3IS 


Thou  little,  youthful  maiden, 
Come  unto  my  great  heart ; 

My  heart,  and  the  sea,  and  the  heaven 
Are  melting  away  with  love  ! 


127 


POETIC  APHORISMS. 

FROM  THE  SINNGEDICHTE  OF  FRIEDRICH  VON  LOGAU 
SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY. 


MONEY, 

Whereunto  is  money  good  ? 
Who  has  it  not  wants  hardihood, 
Who  has  it  has  much  trouble  and  care, 
Who  once  has  had  it  has  despair 


POEMS. 


THE  BEST  MEDICINES. 

Joy  and  Temperance  and  Repose 
Slam  the  door  on  the  doctor's  nose. 


SIN. 


Man-like  is  it  to  fall  into  sin, 
Fiend-like  is  it  to  dwell  therein, 
Christ-like  is  it  for  sin  to  grieve, 
God-like  is  it  all  sin  to  leave. 


POETIC  APHORISMS. 


129 


POVERTY  AND  BLINDNESS. 

A  blind  man  is  a  poor  man,  and  blind  a  poor 
man  is  ; 

For  the  former  seeth  no  man,  and  the  latter  no 
man  sees. 


LAW  OF  LIFE. 

Live  I,  so  live  I, 
To  my  Lord  heartily, 
To  my  Prince  taithfully, 
To  my  Neighbour  honestly. 
Die  I,  so  die  I. 

s 


130 


POEMS. 


CREEDS. 

Lutheran,  Popish,  Calvinistic,  all  these  creecta  and 
doctrines  three 

Extant  are ;  but  still  the  doubt  is,  where  Chris- 
tianity may  be. 


THE  RESTLESS  HEART. 

A  millstone  and  the  human  heart  are  driven  ever 
round  ; 

If  they  have  nothing  else  to  grind,  they  must 
themselves  be  ground. 


POETIC  APHORISMS. 


CHRISTIAN  LOVE. 

Whilom  Love  was  like  a  fire,  and  warmth  and 

comfort  it  bespoke  ; 
But,  alas  !  it  now  is  quenched,  and  only  bites  us, 

like  the  smoke. 


ART  AND  TACT. 

Intelligence  and  courtesy  not  always  are  com- 
bined ; 

Often  in  a  wooden  house  a  •golden  room  we 
find. 


132 


POEMS. 


RETRIBUTION. 

Though  the  mills  of  God  grind  slowly,  yet  they 
grind  exceeding  small ; 

Though  with  patience  he  stands  waiting,  with  ex- 
actness grinds  he  all. 


TRUTH. 

When  by  night  the  frogs  are  croaking,  kindle  but 

a  torch's  fire, 
Ha  !  how  soon  they  all  are  silent !    Thus  Truth 

silences  the  liar. 


POETIC  APHORISMS. 


133 


RHYMES. 

If  perhaps  these  rhymes  of  mine  should  sound 
not  well  in  strangers'  ears, 

They  have  only  to  bethink  them  that  it  happens 
so  with  theirs  ; 

For  so  long  as  words,  like  mortals,  call  a  father- 
land their  own. 

They  will  be  most  highly  valued  where  they  are 
best  and  longest  known. 


C  URF  EW 


# 


137 


Solemnly,  mournfully, 

Dealing  its  dole, 
The  Curfew  Bell 

Is  beginning  to  toll. 

Cover  the  embers, 

And  put  out  the  light  ; 

Toil  comes  with  the  morning, 
And  rest  with  the  night. 


POEMS. 


Dark  grow  the  windows, 
And  quenched  is  the  fire  ; 

Sound  fades  into  silence,  — 
All  footsteps  retire. 

No  voice  in  the  chambers, 
No  sound  in  the  hall  ! 

Sleep  and  oblivion 
Reign  over  all  ! 


CURFEW. 


II. 


The  book  is  completed, 
And  closed,  like  the  day  ; 

And  the  hand  that  has  written  it 
Lays  it  away. 

Dim  grow  its  fancies  , 

Forgotten  they  lie  ; 
Like  coals  in  the  ashes, 

They  darken  and  die. 

Song  sinks  into  silence, 

The  story  is  told, 
The  windows  are  darkened, 

The  hearth-stone  is  cold. 


POEMS. 


Darker  and  darker 

The  black  shadows  fall  ; 
Sleep  and  oblivion 

Reign  over  all. 


EVANGELINE, 
TALE  OF  ACADIE. 

1847. 


EVANGELINE. 


This  is  the  forest  primeval.  The  murmuring 
pines  and  the  hemlocks, 

Bearded  with  moss,  and  in  garments  green,  indis- 
tinct in  the  twilight, 

Stand  like  Druids  of  eld,  with  voices  sad  and 
prophetic} 

Stand  like  harpers  hoar,  with  beards  that  rest  on 

their  bosoms. 
Loud  from  its  rocky  caverns,  the  deep-voiced 

neighbouring  ocean 


144 


EVANGELINE. 


Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the 
wail  of  the  forest. 

This  is  the  forest  primeval  ;  but  where  are  the 
hearts  that  beneath  it 

Leaped  like  the  roe,  when  he  hears  in  the  wood- 
land the  voice  of  the  huntsman  ? 

Where  is  the  thatch-roofed  village,  the  home  of 
Acadian  farmers,  — 

Men  wThose  lives  glided  on  like  rivers  that  water 
the  woodlands, 

Darkened  by  shadows  of  earth,  but  reflecting  an 
image  of  heaven  ? 

Waste  are  those  pleasant  farms,  and  the  farmers 
forever  departed  ! 

Scattered  like  dust  and  leaves,  when  the  mighty- 
blasts  of  October 

Seize  them,  and  whirl  them  aloft,  and  sprinkle 
them  far  o'er  the  ocean. 


EVANGELINE.  145 

Naught  but  tradition  remains  of  the  beautiful  vil- 
lage of  Grand-Pre. 

Ye  who  believe  in  affection  that  hopes,  and 

endures,  and  is  patient, 
Ye  who  believe  in  the  beauty  and  strength  of 

woman's  devotion, 
List  to  the  mournful  tradition  still  sung  by  the 

pines  of  the  forest ; 
List  to  a  Tale  of  Love  in  Acadie,  home  of  the 

happy. 


10 


PAST  THE  FIRST. 


I. 

L\  the  Acadian  land,  on  the  shores  of  the  Basin 
of  Minas, 

Distant,,  secluded,  still,  the  little  village  of  Grand- 
Pi^ 

Lay   in  the    fruitful   valley.      Vast  meadows 

stretched  to  the  eastward, 
Giving  the  village  its  name,  and  pasture  to  flocks 

without  number. 
Dikes,  that  the  hands  of  the  farmers  had  raised 

with  labor  incessant, 
Shut  out  the   turbulent  tides  ;    but  at  stated 

seasons  the  flood-gates 


148  EVANGELINE. 

Opened,  and  welcomed  the  sea  to  wander  at  will 

o'er  the  meadows. 
West  and  south  there  were  fields  of  flax,  and 

orchards  and  cornfields 
Spreading  afar  and  unfenced  o'er  the  plain  ,  and 

away  to  the  northward 
Blomidon  rose,  and  the  forests  old,  and  aloft  on 

the  mountains 
Sea-fogs  pitched  their  tents,  and  mists  from  the 

mighty  Atlantic 
Looked  on  the  happy  valley,  but  ne'er  from  their 

station  descended. 
There,  in  the  midst  of  its  farms,  reposed  the 

Acadian  village. 

Strongly  built  were  the  houses,  with  frames  of 

oak  and  of  chestnut, 
i 

Such  as  the  peasants  of  Normandy  built  in  the 

reign  of  the  Henries. 
Thatched  were  the  roofs,  with  dormer-windows  ; 

and  gables  projecting 


EVANGELINE. 


149 


Over  the  basement  below  protected  and  shaded 

the  door-way. 
There  in  the  tranquil  evenings  of  summer,  when 

brightly  the  sunset 
Lighted  the  village  street,  and  gilded  the  vanes 

on  the  chimneys, 
Matrons  and  maidens  sat  in  snow-white  caps  and 

in  kirtles 

Scarlet  and  blue  and  green,  with  distaffs  spin- 
ning the  golden 

Flax  for  the  gossiping  looms,  whose  noisy  shuttles 
within  doors 

Mingled  their  sound  with  the  whir  of  the  wheels 

and  the  songs  of  the  maidens. 
Solemnly  down  the  street  came  the  parish  priest, 

and  the  children 
Paused  in  their  play  to  kiss  the  hand  he  extended 

to  bless  them. 
Reverend  walked  he  among  them  ;  and  up  rose 

matrons  and  maidens, 


150 


EVANGELINE. 


Hailing  his  slow  approach  with  words  of  affec- 
tionate welcome. 

Then  came  the  laborers  home  from  the  field,  and 
serenely  the  sun  sank 

Down  to  his  rest,-  and  twilight  prevailed.  Anon 
from  the  belfry 

Softly  the  Angelus  sounded,  and  over  the  roofs 
of  the  village 

Columns  of  pale  blue  smoke,  like  clouds  of  in- 
cense ascending, 

Rose  from  a  hundred  hearths,  the  homes  of  peace 
and  contentment. 

Thus  dweit  together  in  love  these  simple  Acadian 
farmers, — 

Dwelt  in  the  love  of  God  and  of  man.  Alike 

were  they  free  from 
Fear,  that  reigns  with  the  tyrant,  and  envy,  the 

vice  of  republics. 
Neither  locks  had  they  to  their  doors,  nor  bars 

to  their  windows  ; 


EVANGELINE. 


151 


But  their  dwellings  were  open  as  day  and  the 

hearts  of  the  owners  ; 
There  the  richest  was  poor,  and  the  poorest  lived 

in  abundance. 

Somewhat  apart  from  the  village,'  and  nearer 
the  Basin  of  Minas, 
Benedict  Bellefontaine,  the  wealthiest  farmer  of 
Grand-Pre, 

Dwelt  on  his  goodly  acres  ;  and  with  him,  direct- 
ing his  household, 

Gentle  Evangeline  lived,  his  child,  and  the  pride 
of  the  village. 

Stalworth  and  stately  in  form  was  the  man  of  sev- 
enty winters  ; 

Hearty  and  hale  was  he,  an  oak  that  is  covered 
with  snow-flakes  ; 

White  as  the  snow  were  his  locks,  and  his  cheeks 
as  brown  as  the  oak-leaves. 


\b2 


EVANGELINE. 


Fair  was  she  to  behold,  that  maiden  of  seventeen 
summers. 

Black  were  her  eyes  as  the  berry  that  grows  on 

the  thorn  by  the  way-side, 
Black,  yet  how  softly  they  gleamed  beneath  the 

brown  shade  of  her  tresses  ! 
Sweet  was  her  breath  as  the  breath  of  kine  that 

feed  in  the  meadows. 
When  in  the  harvest  heat  she  bore  to  the  reapers 

at  noontide 

Flagons  of  home-brewed  ale,  ah  !  fair  in  sooth 

was  the  maiden. 
Fairer  wras  she  when,  on  Sunday  morn,  while  the 

bell  from  its  turret 
Sprinkled  with  holy  sounds  the  air,  as  the  priest 

with  his  hyssop 
Sprinkles  the  congregation,  and  scatters  blessings 

upon  them, 

Down  the  long  street  she  passed,  with  her  chap- 
let  of  beads  and  her  missal, 


EVANGELINE. 


153 


Wearing  her  Norman  cap,  and  her  kirtle  of  blue, 

and  the  ear-rings, 
Brought  in  the  olden  time  from  France,  and 

since,  as  an  heirloom, 
Handed  down  from  mother  to  child,  through  long 

generations. 

But  a  celestial  brightness  —  a  more  ethereal 
beauty  — 

Shone  on  her  face  and  encircled  her  form,  when, 
after  confession, 

Homeward  serenely  she  walked  with  God's  bene- 
diction upon  her. 

When  she  had  passed,  it  seemed  like  the  ceasing 
of  exquisite  music. 

Firmly  builded  with  rafters  of  oak,  the  house  of 
the  farmer 

Stood  on  the  side  of  a  hill  commanding  the  sea  ; 
and  a  shady 

Sycamore  grew  by  the  door,  with  a  woodbine 
wreathing  around  it 


154  EVANGELINE. 

Rudely  carved  was  the  porch,  with  seats  be- 
neath ;  and  a  footpath 

Led  through  an  orchard  wide,  and  disappeared 
m  the  meadow. 

Under  the  sycamore-tree  were  hives  overhung  by 
a  penthouse, 

Such  as  the  traveller  sees  in  regions  remote  by 

the  road-side, 
Built  o'er  a  box  for  the  poor,  or  the  blessed 

image  of  Mary. 
Farther  down,  on  the  slope  of  the  hill,  was  the 

well  with  its  moss-grown 
Bucket,  fastened  with  iron,  and  near  it  a  trough 

for  the  horses. 
Shielding  the  house  from  storms,  on  the  north, 

were  the  barns  and  the  farm-yard. 
There  stood  the  broad-wheeled  wTains  and  the 

antique  ploughs  and  the  harrows  ; 
There  were  the  folds  for  the  sheep  ;  and  there, 

in  his  feathered  seraglio, 


EVANGELINE. 


155 


Strutted  the  lordly  turkey,  and  crowed  the  cock, 
with  the  selfsame 

Voice  that  in  ages  of  old  had  startled  the  peni- 
tent Peter. 

Bursting  with  hay  were  the  barns,  themselves  a 

village.    In  each  one 
Far  o'er  the  gable  projected  a  roof  of  thatch ; 

and  a  staircase, 
Under  the  sheltering  eaves,  led  up  to  the  odorous 

corn-loft. 

There  too  the  dove-cot  stood,  with  its  meek  and 

innocent  inmates 
Murmuring  ever  of  love  ;  while  above  in  the 

variant  breezes 
Numberless  noisy  weathercocks  rattled  and  sang 

of  mutation. 

Thus,  at  peace  with  God  and  the  world,  the 
farmer  of  Grand-Pre 


156  EVANGELINE. 

Lived  on  his  sunny  farm,  and  Evangeline  gov- 
erned his  household. 

Many  a  youth,  as  he  knelt  in  the  church  and 
opened  his  missal, 

Fixed  his  eyes  upon  her,  as  the  saint  of  his  deep- 
est devotion  ; 

Happy  was  he  who  might  touch  her  hand  or  the 
hem  of  her  garment  ! 

Many  a  suitor  came  to  her  door,  by  the  darkness 
befriended, 

And  as  he  knocked  and  waited  to  hear  the  sound 

of  her  footsteps, 
Knew  not  which  beat  the  louder,  his  heart  or  the 

knocker  of  iron  ; 
Or  at  the  joyous  feast  of  the  Patron  Saint  of  the 

village, 

Bolder  grew,  and  pressed  her  hand  in  the  dance 

as  he  whispered 
Hurried  words  of  love,  that  seemed  a  part  of  the 

music. 


EVANGELINE. 


157 


But,  among  all  who  came,  young  Gabriel  only 

was  welcome  ; 
Gabriel  Lajeunesse,  the  son  of  Basil  the  black- 

smith, 

Who  was  a  mighty  man  in  the  village,  and  hon- 
ored of  all  men  ; 

For  since  the  birth  of  time,  throughout  all  ages 
and  nations, 

Has  the  craft  of  the  smith  been  held  in  repute  by 
the  people. 

Basil  was   Benedict's   friend.     Their  children 

from  earliest  childhood 
Grew  up  together  as  brother  and  sister  ;  and 

Father  Felician, 
Priest  and  pedagogue  both  in  the  village,  had 

taught  them  their  letters 
Out  of  the  selfsame  book,  with  the  hymns  of  the 

church  and  the  plain-song. 
But  when  the  hymn  was  sung,  and  the  daily 

lesson  completed, 


158 


EVANGELINE. 


Swiftly  they  hurried  away  to  the  forge  of  Basil 

the  blacksmith. 
There  at  the  door  they  stood,  with  wondering 

eyes  to  behold  him 
Take  in  his  leathern  lap  the  hoof  of  the  horse  as 

a  plaything, 

Nailing  the  shoe  in  its  place  ;  while  near  him  the 

tire  of  the  cart-wheel 
Lay  like  a  fiery  snake,  coiled  round  in  a  circle 

of  cinders. 

Oft  on  autumnal  eves,  when  without  in  the  gath- 
ering darkness 

Bursting  with  light  seemed  the  smithy,  through 
every  cranny  and  crevice, 

Warm  by  the  forge  within  they  watched  the  la- 
boring bellows, 

And  as  its  panting  ceased,  and  the  sparks  ex- 
pired in  the  ashes, 

Merrily  laughed,  and  said  they  were  nuns  going 
into  the  chapel. 


EVANGELINE. 


159 


Oft  on  sledges  in  winter,  as  swift  as  the  swoop 

of  the  eagle, 
Down  the  hill-side  bounding,  they  glided  away 

o'er  the  meadow. 
Oft  in  the  barns  they  climbed  to  the  populous 

nests  on  the  rafters, 
Seeking  with  eager  eyes  that  wondrous  stone, 

which  the  swallow 
Brings  from  the  shore  of  the  sea  to  restore  the 

sight  of  its  fledglings  ; 
Lucky  was  he  who  found  that  stone  in  the  nest 

of  the  swallow  ! 
Thus  passed  a  few  swift  years,  and  they  no 

longer  were  children. 
He  was  a  valiant  youth,  and  his  face,  like  the 

face  of  thfr  morning, 
Gladdened  the  earth  with  its  light,  and  ripened 

thought  into  action. 
She  was  a  woman  now,  with  the  heart  and  hopes 

of  a  woman. 


160 


EVANGELINE. 


"  Sunshine  of  Saint  Eulalie  "  was  she  called  ; 
for  that  was  the  sunshine 

Which,  as  the  farmers  believed,  would  load  their 
orchards  with  apples  ; 

She,  too,  would  bring  to  her  husband's  house 
delight  and  abundance, 

Filling  it  full  of  love  and  the  ruddy  faces  of  chil- 
dren. 


II. 


Now  had  the  season  returned,  when  the  nights 

grow  colder  and  longer, 
And  the  retreating  sun  the  sign  of  the  Scorpion 

enters. 

Birds  of  passage  sailed  through  the  leaden  air, 

from  the  ice-bound, 
Desolate  northern  bays  to  the  shores  of  tropical 

islands. 

Harvests  were  gathered  in ;  and  wild  with  the 

winds  of  September 
Wrestled  the  trees  of  the  forest,  as  Jacob  of  old 

with  the  angel. 


162 


EVANGELINE. 


All  the  signs  foretold  a  winter  long  and  inclem- 
ent. 

Bees,  with  prophetic  instinct  of  want,  had  hoard- 
ed their  honey 

Till  the  hives  overflowed  ;  and  the  Indian  hunters 
asserted 

Cold  would  the  winter  be,  for  thick  was  the  fur 
of  the  foxes. 

Such  was  the  advent  of  autumn.  Then  followed 
that  beautiful  season, 

Called  by  the  pious  Acadian  peasants  the  Sum- 
mer of  All- Saints  ! 

Filled  was  the  air  with  a  dreamy  and  magical 
light ;  and  the  landscape 

Lay  as  if  new-created  in  all  the  freshness  of 
childhood. 

Peace  seemed  to  reign  upon  earth,  and  the  rest- 
less heart  of  the  ocean 

Was  for  a  moment  consoled.  All  sounds  were 
in  harmony  blended. 


EVANGELINE. 


163 


Voices  of  children  at  play,  the  crowing  of  cocks 

in  the  farm-yards, 
Whir  of  wings  in  the  drowsy  air,  and  the  cooing 

of  pigeons, 

All  were  subdued  and  low  as  the  murmurs  of 

love,  and  the  great  sun 
Looked  with  the  eye  of  love  through  the  golden 

vapors  around  him  ; 
While  arrayed  in  its  robes  of  russet  and  scarlet 

and  yellow, 

Bright  with  the  sheen  of  the  dew,  each  glittering 

tree  of  the  forest 
Flashed  like  the  plane-tree  the  Persian  adorned 

with  mantles  and  jewels. 

Now  recommenced  the  reign  of  rest  and  affec- 
tion and  stillness. 
Day  with  its  burden  and  heat  had  departed,  and 
twilight  descending 


164 


EVANGELINE. 


Brought  back  the  evening  star  to  the  sky,  and 

the  herds  to  the  homestead. 
Pawing  the  ground  they  came,  and  resting  their 

necks  on  each  other, 
And  with  their  nostrils  distended  inhaling  the 

freshness  of  evening. 
Foremost,  bearing  the  bell,  Evangeline's  beautiful 

heifer, 

Proud  of  her  snow-white  hide,  and  the  ribbon 

that  wraved  from  her  collar, 
Quietly  paced  and  slow,  as  if  conscious  of  human 

affection. 

Then  came  the  shepherd  back  with  his  bleating 

flocks  from  the  sea-side, 
Where  was  their  favorite  pasture.    Behind  them 

followed  the  watch-dog, 
Patient,  full  of  importance,  and  grand  in  the 

pride  of  his  instinct, 
Walking  from  side  to  side  with  a  lordly  air,  and 

superbly 


EVANGELINE. 


165 


Waving  his  bushy  tail,  and  urging  forward  the 
stragglers  ; 

Regent  of  flocks  was  he  when  the  shepherd  slept ; 

their  protector, 
When  from  the  forest  at  night,  through  the  starry 

silence,  the  wolves  howled. 
Late,  with  the  rising  moon,  returned  the  wains 

from  the  marshes, 
Laden  with  briny  hay,  that  filled  the  air  with  its 

odor. 

Cheerily  neighed  the  steeds,  with  dew  on  their 

manes  and  their  fetlocks, 
While  aloft  on  their  shoulders  the  wooden  and 

ponderous  saddles, 
Painted  with  brilliant  dyes,  and  adorned  with 

tassels  of  crimson, 
Nodded  in  bright  array,  like  hollyhocks  heavy 

with  blossoms. 
Patiently  stood  the  cows  meanwhile,  and  yielded 

their  udders 


166 


EVANGELINE. 


Unto  the  milkmaid's  hand  ;  whilst  loud  and  in 

regular  cadence 
Into  the  sounding  pails  the  foaming  streamlets 

descended. 

Lowing  of  cattle  and  peals  of  laughter  were 

heard  in  the  farm-yard, 
Echoed  back  by  the  barns.    Anon  they  sank  into 

stillness  ; 

Heavily  closed,  with  a  jarring  sound,  the  valves 

of  the  barn-doors, 
Rattled  the  wooden  bars,  and  all  for  a  season 

was  silent. 


In-doors,  warm  by  the  wide-mouthed  fireplace, 

idly  the  farmer 
Sat  in  his  elbow-chair,  and  watched  how  the 

flames  and  the  smoke-wreaths 
Struggled  together  like  foes  in  a  burning  city. 

Behind  him, 


EVANGELINE. 


167 


Nodding  and  mocking  along  the  wall,  with  ges- 
tures fantastic, 
Darted  his  own  huge  shadow,  and  vanished  away 

into  darkness. 
Faces,  clumsily  carved  in  oak,  on  the  back  of 

his  arm-chair 
Laughed  in  the  flickering  light,  and  the  pewter 

plates  on  the  dresser 
Caught  and  reflected  the  flame,  as  shields  of 

armies  the  sunshine. 
Fragments  of  song  the  old  man  sang,  and  carols 

of  Christmas, 
Such  as  at  home,  in  the  olden  time,  his  fathers 

before  him 

Sang  in  their  Norman  orchards  and  bright  Bur- 
gundian  vineyards. 

Close  at  her  father's  side  was  the  gentle  Evan- 
geline seated, 

Spinning  flax  for  the  loom,  that  stood  in  the 
corner  behind  her. 


168 


EVANGELINE. 


Silent  awhile  were  its  treadles,  at  rest  was  it? 

diligent  shuttle, 
While  the  monotonous  drone  of  the  wheel,  like 

the  drone  of  a  bagpipe, 
Followed  the  old  man's  song,  and  united  the 

fragments  together. 
As  in  a  church,  when  the  chant  of  the  choir  at 

intervals  ceases, 
Footfalls  are  heard  in  the  aisles,  or  words  of  the 

priest  at  the  altar, 
So,  in  each  pause  of  the  song,  with  measured 

motion  the  clock  clicked. 


Thus  as  they  sat,  there  were  footsteps  heard, 

and,  suddenly  lifted, 
Sounded  the  wooden  latch,  and  the  door  swung 

back  on  its  hinges. 
Benedict  knew  by  the  hob-nailed  shoes  it  was 

Basil  the  blacksmith, 


EVANGELINE. 


169 


And  by  her  beating  heart  Evangeline  knew  who 

was  with  him. 
"  Welcome  !  "   the  farmer  exclaimed,  as  their 

footsteps  paused  on  the  threshold, 
"  Welcome,  Basil,  my  friend  !    Come,  take  thy 

place  on  the  settle 
Close   by  the   chimney-side,   which  is  always 

empty  without  thee  ; 
Take  from  the  shelf  overhead  thy  pipe  and  the 

box  of  tobacco  ; 
Never  so  much  thyself  art  thou  as  when  through 

the  curling 

Smoke  of  the  pipe  or  the  forge  thy  friendly  and 

jovial  face  gleams 
Round  and  red  as  the  harvest  moon  through  the 

mist  of  the  marshes." 
Then,  with  a  smile  of  content,  thus  answered 

Basil  the  blacksmith, 
Taking  with  easy  air  the  accustomed  seat  by  the 

fireside  :  — 


170  EVANGELINE. 

"  Benedict  Bellefontaine,  thou  hast  ever  thy  jest 
and  thy  ballad  ! 

Ever  in  cheerfullest  mood  art  thou,  when  others 
are  filled  with 

Gloomy  forebodings  of  ill,  and  see.  only  ruin 
before  them. 

Happy  art  thou,  as  if  every  day  thou  hadst 
picked  up  a  horseshoe." 

Pausing  a  moment,  to  take  the  pipe  that  Evan- 
geline brought  him, 

And  with  a  coal  from  the  embers  had  lighted,  he 
slowly  continued  :  — 

u  Four  days  now  are  passed  since  the  English 
ships  at  their  anchors 

Ride  in  the  Gaspereau's  mouth,  with  their  can- 
non pointed  against  us. 

What  their  design  may  be  is  unknown  ;  but  all 
are  commanded 

On  the  morrow  to  meet  in  the  church,  where  his 
Majesty's  mandate 


EVANGELINE. 


171 


Will  be  proclaimed  as  law  in  the  land.    Alas ! 

in  the  mean  time 
Many  surmises  of  evil  alarm  the  hearts  of  the 

people." 

Then  made  answer   the   farmer  :  —  "  Perhaps 

some  friendlier  purpose 
Brings  these  ships  to  our  shores.    Perhaps  the 

harvests  in  England 
By  the  untimely  rains  or  untimelier  heat  have 

been  blighted, 
And  from  our  bursting  barns  they  would  feed 

their  cattle  and  children." 
"  Not  so  thinketh  the  folk  in  the  village,"  said, 

warmly,  the  blacksmith, 
Shaking  his  head,  as  in  doubt  ;  then,  heaving  a 

sigh,  he  continued  :  — 
"  Louisburg  is  not  forgotten,  nor  Beau  Sejour, 

nor  Port  Royal. 
Many  already  have  fled  to  the  forest,  and  lurk  on 

its  outskirts, 


172  EVANGELINE. 

Waiting  with  anxious  hearts  the  dubious  fate  of 
to-morrow. 

Arms  have  been  taken  from  us,  and  warlike 

weapons  of  all  kinds  ; 
Nothing  is  left  but  the  blacksmith's  sledge  and  the 

scythe  of  the  mower." 
Then  with  a  pleasant  smile  made  answer  the 

jovial  farmer  :  — 
u  Safer  are  we  unarmed,  in  the  midst  of  our 

flocks  and  our  cornfields, 
Safer  within  these  peaceful  dikes,  be^'eged  by 

the  ocean, 

Than  were  our  fathers  in  forts,  besieged  by  the 

enemy's  cannon. 
Fear  no  evil,  my  friend,  and  to-night  may  no 

shadow  of  sorrow 
Fall  on  this  house  and  hearth ;  for  this  is  the 

night  of  the  contract. 
Built  are  the  house  and  the  barn.    The  merry 

lads  of  the  village 


EVANGELINE. 


173 


Strongly  have  built  them  and  well ;  and,  breaking 

the  glebe  round  about  them, 
Filled  the  barn  with  hay,  and  the  house  with  food 

for  a  twelvemonth. 
Rene  Leblanc  will  be  here  anon,  with  his  papers 

and  inkhorn. 

Shall  wTe  not  then  be  glad,  and  rejoice  in  the  joy 

of  our  children  ?  " 
As  apart  by  the  window  she  stood,  with  her  hand 

in  her  lover's, 
Blushing  Evangeline  heard  the  words  that  her 

father  had  spoken, 
And  as  they  died  on  his  lips  the  worthy  notary 

entered. 


III. 


Bent  like  a  laboring  oar,  that  toils  in  the  surf 

of  the  ocean, 
Bent,  but  not  broken,  by  age  was  the  form  of 

the  notary  public  ; 
Shocks  of  yellow  hair,  like  the  silken  floss  of  the 

maize,  hung 

Over  his  shoulders  ;  his  forehead  was  high  ;  and 

glasses  with  horn  bows 
Sat  astride  on  his  nose,  with  a  look  of  wisdom 

supernal. 

Father  of  twenty  children  was  he,  and  more  than 
a  hundred 


176 


EVANGELINE. 


Children's  children  rode  on  his  knee,  and  heard 

his  great  watch  tick. 
Four  long  years  in  the  times  of  the  war  had  he 

languished  a  captive, 
Suffering  much  in  an  old  French  fort  as  the  friend 

of  the  English. 
Now,  though  warier  grown,  without  all  guile  or 

suspicion, 

Ripe  in  wisdom  was  he,  but  patient,  and  simple, 

and  childlike. 
He  was  beloved  by  all,  and  most  of  all  by  the 

children  ; 

For  he  told  them  tales  of  the  Loup-garou  in  the 
forest, 

And  of  the  goblin  that  came  in  the  night  to  water 
the  horses, 

And  of  the  white  Letiche,  the  ghost  of  a  child 

who  unchristened 
Died,   and  was  doomed  to  haunt  unseen  the 

chambers  of  children  ; 


E  V  AN  GE  LIN  E. 


177 


And  how  on  Christmas  eve  the  oxen  talked  m 
the  stable, 

And  how  the  fever  was  cured  by  a  spider  shut 

up  in  a  nutshell, 
And  of  the  marvellous  powers  of  four-leaved 

clover  and  horseshoes, 
With  whatsoever  else  was  writ  in.  the  lore  of  the 

village. 

Then  up  rose  from  his  seat  by  the  fireside  Basil 

the  blacksmith, 
Knocked  from  his  pipe  the  ashes,  and  slowly 

extending  his  right  hand, 
"Father  Leblanc,"  he  exclaimed,  "  thou  hast 

heard  the  talk  in  the  village, 
And,  perchance,  canst  tell  us  some  news  of  these 

ships  and  their  errand." 
Then  with  modest  demeanour  made  answer  the 

notary  public,  — 
"  Gossip  enough  have  I  heard,  in  sooth,  yet  am 

never  the  wiser  ; 


178 


EVANGELINE. 


And  what  their  errand  may  be  I  know  not  better 
than  others. 

Yet  am  I  not  of  those  who  imagine  some  evil 
intention 

Brings  them  here,  for  we  are  at  peace  ;  and  why 
then  molest  us  ?  " 

"God's  name!"  shouted  the  hasty  and  some- 
what irascible  blacksmith  ; 

u  Must  we  in  all  things  look  for  the  how,  and 
the  why,  and  the  wherefore  ? 

Daily  injustice  is  done,  and  might  is  the  right  of 
the  strongest  !  " 

But,  without  heeding  his  warmth,  continued  the 
notary  public,  — 

u  Man  is  unjust,  but  God  is  just ;  and  finally 
justice 

Triumphs  ;  and  well  I  remember  a  story,  that 

often  consoled  me, 
When  as  a  captive  I  lay  in  the  old  French  fort 

at  Port  Royal." 


EVANGELINE. 


179 


This  was  the  old  man's  favorite  tale,  and  he 
loved  to  repeat  it 

Wlien  his  neighbours  complained  that  any  injus- 
tice was  done  them. 

u  Once  in  an  ancient  city,  whose  name  I  no 
longer  remember, 

Raised  aloft  on  a  column,  a  brazen  statue  of  Jus- 
tice 

Stood  in  the  public  square,  upholding  the  scales 
in  its  left  hand, 

And  in  its  right  a  sword,  as  an  emblem  that  jus- 
tice presided 

Over  the  laws  of  the  land,  and  the  hearts  and 
homes  of  the  people. 

Even  the  birds  had  built  their  nests  in  the  scales 
of  the  balance, 

Having  no  fear  of  the  sword  that  flashed  in  the 
sunshine  above  them. 

But  in  the  course  of  time  the  iaws  of  the  land 
were  corrupted  ; 


180 


EVANGELINE. 


Might  took  the  place  of  right,  and  the  weak  were 

oppressed,  and  the  mighty 
Ruled  with  an  iron  rod.    Then  it  chanced  in 

a  nobleman's  palace 
That  a  necklace  of  pearls  was  lost,  and  ere  long 

a  suspicion 

Fell  on  an  orphan  girl  who  lived  as  maid  in  the 
household. 

She,  after  form  of  trial  condemned  to  die  on  the 
scaffold, 

Patiently  met  her  doom  at  the  foot  of  the  statue 
of  Justice. 

As  to  her  Father  in  heaven  her  innocent  spirit 
ascended, 

Lo  !  o'er  the  city  a  tempest  rose  ;  and  the  bolts 

of  the  thunder 
Smote  the  statue  of  bronze-,  and  hurled  in  wrath 

from  its  left  hand 
Down  on  the  pavement  below  the  clattering 

scales  of  the  balance, 


EVANGELINE. 


181 


And  in  the  hollow  thereof  was  found  the  nest  of 
a  magpie, 

Into  whose  clay-built  walls  the  necklace  of  pearls 

was  inwoven." 
Silenced,  but  not  convinced,  when  the  story  was 

ended,  the  blacksmith 
Stood  like  a  man  who  fain  would  speak,  but 

findeth  no  language  ; 
All  his  thoughts  were  congealed  into  lines  on  his 

face,  as  the  vapors 
Freeze  in  fantastic  shapes  on  the  window-panes 

in  the  winter. 


Then  Evangeline  lighted  the  brazen  lamp  on 
the  table, , 

Filled,  till  it  overflowed,  the  pewter  tankard  with 

home-brewed 
Nut-brown  ale,  that  was  famed  for  its  strength  in 

the  village  of  Grand-Pr£  ; 


182  EVANGELINE. 

While  from  his   pocket  the  notary  drew  his 

papers  and  ink-horn, 
Wrote  with  a  steady  hand  the  date  and  the  age 

of  the  parties, 
Naming  the  dower  of  the  bride  in  flocks  of  sheep 

and  in  cattle. 
Orderly  all  things  proceeded,  and  duly  and  well 

were  completed, 
And  the  great  seal  of  the  law  was  set  like  a  sun 

on  the  margin. 
Then  from  his  leathern  pouch  the  farmer  threw 

on  the  table 

Three  times  the  old  man's  fee  in  solid  pieces  of 
silver  ; 

And  the  notary  rising,  and  blessing  the  bride  and 

the  bridegroom, 
Lifted  aloft  the  tankard  of  ale  and  drank  to  their 

welfare. 

Wiping  the  foam  from   his  lip,   he  solemnly 
bowed  and  departed, 


EVANGELINE. 


183 


While  in  silence  the  others  sat  and  mused  by  the 
fireside, 

Till  Evangeline  brought  the  draught-board  out 
of  its  corner. 

Soon  was  the  game  begun.  In  friendly  conten- 
tion the  old  men 

Laughed  at  each  lucky  hit,  or  unsuccessful  ma- 
noeuvre, 

Laughed  when  a  man  was  crowned,  or  a  breach 
was  made  in  the  king-row. 

Meanwhile  apart,  in  the  twilight  gloom  of  a  win- 
dow's embrasure, 

Sat  the  lovers,  and  whispered  together,  behold- 
ing the  moon  rise 

Over  the  pallid  sea  and  the  silvery  mist  of  the 
meadows. 

Silently  one  by  one,  in  the  infinite  meadows  of 
heaven, 

Blossomed  the  lovely  stars,  the  forget-me-nots 
of  the  angels. 


184  EVANGELINE. 

Thus  passed  the  evening  away.    Anon'  the 

bell  from  the  belfry- 
Rang  out  the  hour  of  nine,  the  village  curfew, 

and  straightway- 
Rose*  the  guests   and   departed;   and  silence 

reigned  in  the  household. 
Many  a  farewell  word  and  sweet  good-night  on 

the  door-step 
Lingered  long  in  Evangeline's  heart,  and  rilled  it 

with  gladness. 
Carefully  then  were  covered  the   embers  that 

glowed  on  the  hearth-stone, 
And  on  the  oaken  stairs  resounded  the  tread  of 

the  farmer. 

Soon  with  a  soundless  step  the  foot  of  Evange- 
line followed. 

Up  the  staircase  moved  a  luminous  space  in  the 
darkness, 

Lighted  less  by  the  lamp  than  the  shining  face  of 
the  maiden. 


EVANGELINE. 


185 


Silent  she  passed  through  the  hall,  and  entered 
the  door  of  her  chamber. 

Simple  that  chamber  was,  with  its  curtains  of 
white,  and  its  clothes-press 

Ample  and  high,  on  whose  spacious  shelves  were 
carefully  folded 

Linen  and  woollen  stuffs,  by  the  hand  of  Evan- 
geline woven. 

This  was  the  precious  dower  she  would  bring  to 
her  husband  in  marriage, 

Better  than  flocks  and  herds,  being  proofs  of  her 
skill  as  a  housewife. 

Soon  she  extinguished  her  lamp,  for  the  mel- 
low and  radiant  moonlight 

Streamed  through  the  windows,  and  lighted  the 
room,  till  the  heart  of  the  maiden 

Swelled  and  obeyed  its  power,  like  the  tremulous 
tides  of  the  ocean. 

Ah  !  she  was  fair,  exceeding  fair  to  behold,  as 
she  stood  with 


186 


EVANGELINE. 


Naked  snow-white  feet  on  the  gleaming  floor  of 
her  chamber  !  • 

Little  she  dreamed  that  below,  among  the  trees 
of  the  orchard, 

Waited  her  lover  and  watched  for  the  gleam  of 
her  lamp  and  her  shadow. 

Yet  were  her  thoughts  of  him,  and  at  times  a 
feeling  of  sadness 

Passed  o'er  her  soul,  as  the  sailing  shade  of 
clouds  in  the  moonlight 

Flitted  across  the  floor  and  darkened  the  room 
for  a  moment. 

And  as  she  gazed  from  the  window  she  saw  se- 
renely the  moon  pass 

Forth  from  the  folds  of  a  cloud,  and  one  star 
follow  her  footsteps, 

As  out  of  Abraham's  tent  young  Ishmael  wan- 
dered with  Hagar  ! 


IV. 


Pleasantly  rose  next  morn  the  sun  on  the 
village  of  Grand-Pre. 

Pleasantly  gleamed  in-  the  soft,  sweet  air  the 
Basin  of  Minas, 

Where  the  ships,  with  their  wavering  shadows, 
were  riding  at  anchor. 

Life  had  long  been  astir  in  the  village,  and  clam- 
orous labor 

Knocked  with  its  hundred  hands  at  the  golden 

gates  of  the  morning. 
Now  from  the  country  around,  from  the  farms 

and  the  neighbouring  hamlets, 


188 


EVANGELINE. 


Came  in  their  holiday  dresses  the  blithe  Acadian 
peasants. 

Many  a  glad  good-morrow  and  jocund  laugh  from 
the  young  folk 

Made  the  bright  air  brighter,  as  up  from  the 
numerous  meadows, 

Where  no  path  could  be  seen  but  the  track  of 
wheels  in  the  greensward. 

Group  after  group  appeared,  and  joined,  or 
passed  on  the  highway. 

Long  ere  noon,  in  the  village  all  sounds  of  labor 
were  silenced. 

Thronged  were  the  streets  with  people  ;  and 
noisy  groups  at  the  house-doors 

Sat  in  the  cheerful  sun,  and  rejoiced  and  gos- 
sipped  together. 

Every  house  was  an  inn,  where  all  were  wel- 
comed and  feasted  ; 

For  with  this  simple  people,  who  lived  like  broth- 
ers together. 


EVANGELINE. 


189 


All  things  were  held  in  common,  and  what  one 

had  was  another's. 
Yet  under  Benedict's  roof  hospitality  seemed 

more  abundant  : 
For  Evangeline  stood  among  the  guests  of  her 

father  ; 

Bright  was  her  face  with  smiles,  and  words  of 

welcome  and  gladness 
Fell  from  her  beautiful  lips,  and  blessed  the  cup 

as  she  gave  it. 

Under  the  open  sky,  in  the  odorous  air  of  the 
orchard, 

Bending  with  golden  fruit,  was  spread  the  feast 
of  betrothal. 

There  in  the  shade  of  the  porch  were  the  priest 

and  the  notary  seated  ; 
There  good  Benedict  sat,  and  sturdy  Basil  the 

blacksmith. 


190 


EVANGELINE. 


Not  far  withdrawn  from  these,  by  the  cider-press 

and  the  beehives, 
Michael  the  fiddler  was  placed,  with  the  gayest 

of  hearts  and  of  waistcoats. 
Shadow  and  light  from  the   leaves  alternately 

played  on  his  snow-white 
Hair,  as  it  waved  in  the  wind  ;  and  the  jolly  face 

of  the  fiddler 
Glowed  like  a  living  coal  when  the  ashes  are 

blown  from  the  embers. 
Gayly  the  old  man  sang  to  the  vibrant  sound  of 

his  fiddle, 

Tons  Us  Bourgeois  de  Chartres,  and  he  Carillon 

de  Dunkerque, 
And  anon  with  his  wooden  shoes  beat  time  to  the 

music. 

Merrily,  merrily  whirled  the  wheels  of  the  dizzy- 
ing dances 

Under  the  orchard-trees  and  down  the  path  to  the 
meadows  ; 


EVANGELINE. 


191 


Old  folk  and  young  together,  and  children  min- 
gled among  them. 

Fairest  of  all  the  maids  was  Evangeline,  Bene- 
dict's daughter  ! 

Noblest  of  all  the  youths  was  Gabriel,  son  of  the 
blacksmith  ! 


So  passed  the  morning  away.  And  lo  !  with 
a  summons  sonorous 

Sounded  the  bell  from  its  tower,  and  over  the 
meadows  a  drum  beat. 

Thronged  ere  long  was  the  church  with  .  men. 
Without,  in  the  churchyard, 

Waited  the  women.  They  stood  by  the  graves, 
and  hung  on  the  head-stones 

Garlands  of  autumn-leaves  and  evergreens  fresh 
from  the  forest. 

Then  came  the  guard  from  the  ships,  and  march- 
ing proudly  among  them 


192 


EVANGELINE. 


Entered  the  sacred  portal.  With  loud  and  dis- 
sonant clangor 

Echoed  the  sound  of  their  brazen  drums  from 
ceiling  and  casement,  — - 

Echoed  a  moment  only,  and  slowly  the  ponder- 
ous portal 

Closed,  and  in  silence  the  crowd  awaited  the  will 

of  the  soldiers. 
Then  uprose  their  commander,  and  spake  from 

the  steps  of  the  altar, 
Holding  aloft  in  his  hands,  with  its  seals,  the 

royal  commission. 
u  You  are  convened  this  day,"  he  said,  "  by  his 

Majesty's  orders.  . 
Clement  and  kind  has  he  been  ;  but  how  you 

have  answered  his  kindness, 
Let  your  own  hearts  reply  !    To  my  natural 

make  and  my  temper 
Painful  the  task  is  I  do,  which  to  you  I  know 

must  be  grievous. 


EVANGELINE. 


193 


Yet  must  I  bow  and  obey,  and  deliver  *he  will 
of  our  monarch  ; 

Namely,  that  all  your  lands,  and  dwellings,  and 
cattle  of  all  kinds 

Forfeited  be  to  the  crown  ;  and  that  you  your- 
selves from  this  province 

Be  transported  to  other  lands.  God  grant  you 
may  dwell  there 

Ever  as  faithful  subjects,  a  happy  and  peaceable 
people  ! 

Prisoners  now  1  declare  you  ;  for  such  is  his 

Majesty's  pleasure  !  " 
As,  when  the  air  is  serene  in  the  sultry  solstice 

of  summer, 

Suddenly  gathers  a  storm,  and  the  deadly  sling  of 

the  hailstones 
Beats  down  the  farmer's  corn  in  the  field  and 

shatters  his  windows, 
Hiding  the  sun,  and  strewing  the  ground  with 

thatch  from  the  house-roofs, 


194  EVANGELINE. 

Bellowing  fly  the  herds,  and  seek  to  break  their 
inclosures  ; 

So  on  the  hearts  of  the  people  descended  the 

words  of  the  speaker. 
Silent  a  moment  they  stood  in  speechless  wonder, 

and  then  rose 
Loader  and  ever  louder  a  wail  of  sorrow  and 

anger, 

And,  by  one  impulse  moved,  they  madly  rushed 

to  the  door- way. 
Vain  was  the  hope  of  escape  ;  and  cries  and 

fierce  imprecations 
Rang  through  the  house  of  prayer  ;  and  high  o'er 

the  heads  of  the  others 
Rose,  with  his  arms  uplifted,  the  figure  of  Basil 

the  blacksmith, 
As,  on  a  stormy  sea,  a  spar  is  tossed  by  the 

billows. 

Flushed  was  his  face  and  distorted  with  passion  ; 
and  wildly  he  shouted,  — 


EVANGELINE. 


195 


u  Down  with  the  tyrants  of  England  !  we  never 

have  sworn  them  allegiance  ! 
Death  to  these  foreign  soldiers,  who  seize  on  our 

homes  and  our  harvests  !  " 
More  he  fain  would  have  said,  but  the  merciless 

hand  of  a  soldier 
Smote  him  upon  the  mouth,  and  dragged  him 

down  to  the  pavement. 


In  the  midst  of  the  strife  and  tumult  of  angry 
contention, 

Lo  !  the  door  of  the  chancel  opened,  and  Father 
,  Felician 

Entered,  with  serious  mien,  and  ascended  the 

steps  of  the  altar. 
Raising  his  reverend  hand,  with  a  gesture  he  awed 

into  silence 

All  that  clamorous  throng  ;  and  thus  he  spake  to 
his  people  ; 


196  EVANGELINE. 

Deep  were  his  tones  and  solemn  ;  in  accents 

measured  and  mournful 
Spake  he,  as,  after  the  tocsin's  alarum,  distinctly 

the  clock  strikes. 
"What  is  this  that  ye  do,  my  children?  what 

madness  has  seized  you  ? 
Forty  years  of  my  life  have  I  labored  among  you, 

,   and  taught  you, 
Not  in  word  alone,  but  in  deed,  to  love  one 

another  ! 

Is  this  the  fruit  of  my  toils,   of  my  vigils  and 

prayers  and  privations  ? 
Have  you  so  soon  forgotten  all  lessons  of  love 

and  forgiveness  ? 
This  is  the  house  of  the  Prince  of  Peace,  and 

would  you  profane  it 
Thus  with  violent  deeds  and  hearts  overflowing 

with  hatred  ? 
Lo  !  where  the  crucified  Christ  from  his  cross  is 

gazing  upon  you  ! 


EVANGELINE. 


197 


See  !  in  those  sorrowful  eyes  what  meekness  and 

holy  compassion  ! 
Hark  !  how  those  lips  still  repeat  the  prayer, 

c  O  Father,  forgive  them  !  ' 
Let  us  repeat  that  prayer  in  the  hour  when  the 

wicked  assail  us, 
Let  us  repeat  it  now,  and  say,  c  O  Father,  forgive 

them  !  '  " 

Few  were  his  words  of  rebuke,  but  deep  in  the 
hearts  of  his  people 

Sank  they,  and  sobs  of  contrition  succeeded  that 
passionate  outbreak ; 

And  they  repeated  his  prayer,  and  said,  cc  O  Fa- 
ther, forgive  them  !  " 

Then  came  the  evening  service.    The  tapers 
gleamed  from  the  altar. 
Fervent  and  deep  was  the  voice  of  the  priest, 
and  the  people  responded, 


198 


EVANGELINE. 


Not  with  their  lips  alone,  but  their  hearts  ;  and 

the  Ave  Maria 
Sang  they,  and  fell  on  their  knees,  and  their 

souls,  with  devotion  translated, 
Rose  on  the  ardor  of  prayer,  like  Elijah  ascend- 

ing  to  heaven. 

Meanwhile  had  spread  in  the  village  the  tidings 
of  ill,  and  on  all  sides 

Wandered,  wailing,  from  house  to  house  the 
women  and  children. 

Long  at  her  father's  door  Evangeline  stood,  with 
her  right  hand 

Shielding  her  eyes  from  the  level  rays  of  the 
sun,  that,  descending, 

Lighted  the  village  street  with  mysterious  splen- 
dor, and  roofed  each 

Peasant's  cottage  with  golden  thatch,  and  em- 
blazoned its  windows. 


EVANGELINE. 


199 


Long  within  had  been  spread  the  snow-white 

cloth  on  the  table  ; 
There  stood  the  wheaten  loaf,  and  the  honey 

fragrant  with  wild  flowers  ; 
There  stood  the  tankard  of  ale,  and  the  cheese 

fresh  brought  from  the  dairy  ; 
And  at  the  head  of  the  board  the  great  arm-chair 

of  the  farmer. 
Thus  did  Evangeline  wait  at  her  father's  door, 

as  the  sunset 
Threw  the  long  shadows  of  trees  o'er  the  broad 

ambrosial  meadows. 
Ah  !  on  her  spirit  within  a  deeper  shadow  had 

fallen, 

And  from  the  fields  of  her  soul  a  fragrance  ce- 
lestial ascended, — 

Charity,  meekness,  love,  and  hope,  and  forgive- 
ness, an   patience  ! 

Then,  all-forgetful  of  self,  she  wandered  into  the 
village, 


200 


EVANGELINE. 


Cheering  with  looks  and  words  the  disconsolate 

hearts  of  the  women, 
As  o'er  the  darkening  fields  with  lingering  steps 

they  departed, 
Urged  by  their  household  cares,  and  the  weary 

feet  of  their  children. 
Down  sank  the  great  red  sun,  and  in  golden, 

glimmering  vapors 
Veiled  the  light  of  his  face,  like  the  Prophet 

descending  from  Sinai. 
Sweetly  over  the  village  the  bell  of  the  Angelus 

sounded. 

Meanwhile,  amid  the  gloom,  by  the  church 
Evangeline  lingered. 

All  was  silent  within  ;  and  in  vain  at  the  door 
and  the  windows 

Stood  she,  and  listened  and  looked,  until,  over- 
come by  emotion 


EVANGELINE. 


201 


"  Gabriel ! "    cried  she   aloud  with  tremulous 

voice  ;  but  no  answer 
Came  from  the  graves  of  the  dead,   nor  the 

gloomier  grave  of  the  living. 
Slowly  at  length  she  returned  to  the  tenantless 

house  of  her  father. 
Smouldered  the  fire  on  the  hearth,  on  the  board 

stood  the  supper  untasted. 
Empty  and  drear  was  each  room,  and  haunted 

with  phantoms  of  terror. 
Sadly  echoed  her  step  on  the  stair  and  the  floor 

of  her  chamber. 
In  the  dead  of  the  night  she  heard  the  whispering 

rain  fall 

Loud  on  the  withered  leaves  of  the  sycamore- 
tree  by  the  window. 

Keenly  the  lightning  flashed  ;  and  the  voice  of 
the  echoing  thunder 

Told  her  that  God  was  in  heaven,  and  governed 
the  world  he  created  ! 


202  EVANGELINE. 

Then  she  remembered  the  tale  she  had  heard  of 
the  justice  of  heaven  ; 

Soothed  was  her  troubled  soul,  and  she  peace- 
fully slumbered  till  morning. 


V. 


Four  times  the  sun  had  risen  and  set;  and  now 
on  the  fifth  day 

Cheerily  called  the  cock  to  the  sleeping  maids 
of  the  farm-house. 

Soon  o'er  the  yellow  fields,  in  silent  and  mourn- 
ful procession, 

Came  from  the  neighbouring  hamlets  and  farms 
the  Acadian  women, 

Driving  in  ponderous  wains  their  household  goods 
to  the  sea-shore, 

Pausing  and  looking  back  to  gaze  once  more  op 
their  dwellings, 


204 


EVANGELINE. 


Ere  they  were  shut  from  sight  by  the  winding 

road  and  the  woodland. 
Close  at  their  sides  their  children  ran,  and  urged 

on  the  oxen, 

While  in  their  little  hands  they  clasped  some 
fragments  of  playthings. 

Thus  to  the  Gaspereau's  mouth  they  hurried  ; 
and  there  on  the  sea-beach 
Piled  in  confusion  lay  the  household  goods  of  the 
peasants. 

All  day  long  between  the  shore  and  the  ships  did 

the  boats  ply  ; 
All  day  long  the  wains  came  laboring  down  from 

the  village. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was  near  to 
his  setting, 

F  hoing  far  o'er  the  fields  came  the  roll  of  drums 
from  the  church-yard. 


EVANGELINE. 


205 


Thither  the  women  and  children  thronged.  On 
a  sudden  the  church-doors 

Opened,  and  forth  came  the  guard,  and  marching 
in  gloomy  procession 

Followed  the  long-imprisoned,  but  patient,  Aca- 
dian farmers. 

Even  as  pilgrims,  who  journey  afar  from  their 
homes  and  their  country, 

Sing  as  they  go,  and  in  singing  forget  they  are 
weary  and  way-worn, 

So  with  songs  on  their  lips  the  Acadian  peasants 
descended 

Down  from  the  church  to  the  shore,  amid  their 

wives  and  their  daughters. 
Foremost  the  young  men  came ;  and,  raising 

together  their  voices, 
Sang  they  with  tremulous  lips  a  chant  of  the 

Catholic  Missions  :  — 
"  Sacred  heart  of  the  Saviour  !    O  inexhaustible 

fountain  ! 


206 


EVANGELINE. 


Fill  our  hearts  this  day  with  strength  and  submis- 
sion and  patience  ! 55 

Then  the  old  men,  as  they  marched,  and  the 
women  that  stood  by  the  way-side 

Joined  in  the  sacred  psalm,  and  the  birds  in  the 
sunshine  above  them 

Mingled  their  notes  therewith,  like  voices  of 
spirits  departed. 

Half-way  down  to  the  shore  Evangeline  waited 
in  silence, 

Not  overcome  with  grief,  but  strong  in  the  hour 

of  affliction,  — 
Calmly  and  sadly  waited,  until  the  procession 

approached  her, 
And  she  beheld  the  face  of  Gabriel  pale  with 

emotion. 

Tears  then  filled  her  eyes,  and,  eagerly  running 
to  meet  him, 


EVANGELINE. 


207 


Clasped  she  his  hands,  and  laid  her  head  on  his 

shoulder,  and  whispered,  — 
"  Gabriel  !  be  of  good  cheer  !  for  if  we  love 

one  another, 

Nothing,  in  truth,  can  harm  us,  whatever  mis- 
chances may  happen  !  " 
Smiling  she  spake  these  words  ;  then  suddenly 

paused,  for  her  father 
Saw  she  slowly  advancing.    Alas  !  how  changed 

was  his  aspect  ! 
Gone  was  the  glow  from  his  cheek,  and  the  fire 

from  his  eye,  and  his  footstep 
Heavier  seemed  with  the  weight  of  the  weary 

heart  in  his  bosom. 
But  with  a  smile  and  a  sigh,  she  clasped  his  neck 

and  embraced  him, 
Speaking  words  of  endearment  where  wrords  of 

comfort  availed  not. 
Thus  to  the  Gaspereau's  mouth  moved  on  that 

mournful  procession. 


208 


LVANGEI.1NE. 


There  disorder  prevailed,  and  the  tumult  and 
stir  of  embarking. 
Busily  plied  the  freighted  boats  ;  and  in  the  con- 
fusion 

Wives  were  torn  from  their  husbands,  and  moth- 
ers, too  late,  saw  their  children 

Left  on  the  land,  extending  their  arms,  with 
wildest  entreaties. 

So  unto  separate  ships  were  Basil  and  Gabriel 
carried, 

While  in  despair  on  the  shore  Evangeline  stood 

with  her  father. 
Half  the  task  was  not  done  when  the  sun  went 

down,  and  the  twilight 
Deepened  and  darkened  around  ;  and  in  haste 

the  refluent  ocean 
Fled  away  from  the  shore,  and  left  the  line  of  the 

sand-beach 

Covered  with  waifs  of  the  tide,  with  kelp  and 
the  slippery  sea-weed. 


EVANGELINE. 


209 


Farther  back  in  the  midst  of  the  household  goods 

and  the  wagons, 
Like  to  a  gypsy  camp,  or  a  leaguer  after  a 

battle, 

All  escape  cut  off  by  the  sea,  and  the  sentinels 
near  them, 

Lay  encamped  for  the  night  the  houseless  Aca- 
dian farmers. 

Back  to  its  nethermost  caves  retreated  the  bel- 
lowing ocean, 

Dragging  adown  the  beach  the  rattling  peb- 
bles, and  leaving 

Inland  and  far  up  the  shore  the  stranded  boats 
of  the  sailors. 

Then,  as  the  night  descended,  the  herds  re- 
turned from  their  pastures  ; 

Sweet  was  the  moist  still  air  with  the  odor  of 
milk  from  their  udders  ; 

Lowing  they  waited,  and  long,  at  the  well-known 
bars  of  the  farm-yard,  — 


210 


EVANGELINE. 


Waited  and  looked  in  vain  for  the  voice  and  the 

hand  of  the  milkmaid. 
Silence  reigned  in  the  streets  ;  from  the  church 

no  Angelus  sounded, 
Rose  no  smoke  from  the  roofs,  and  gleamed  no 

lights  from  the  windows. 


But  on  the  shores  meanwhile  the  evening  fires 
had  been  kindled, 

Built  of  the  drift-wood  thrown  on  the  sands  from 
wrecks  in  the  tempest. 

Round  them  shapes  of  gloom  and  sorrowful  faces 
were  gathered, 

Voices  of  women  were  heard,  and  of  men,  and 
the  crying  of  children. 

Onward  from  fire  to  fire,  as  from  hearth  to  hearth 
in  his  parish, 

Wandered  the  faithful  priest,  consoling  and  bless- 
ing and  cheering, 


EVANGELINE. 


211 


Like  unto  shipwrecked  Paul  on  Melita's  deso- 
late sea-shore. 

Thus  he  approached  the  place  where  Evangeline 
sat  with  her  father, 

And  in  the  flickering  light  beheld  the  face  of  the 
old  man, 

Haggard  and  hollow  and  wan,  and  without  either 
thought  or  emotion, 

E'en  as  the  face  of  a  clock  from  which  the  hands 
have  been  taken. 

Vainly  Evangeline  strove  with  words  and  caresses 
to  cheer  him, 

Vainly  offered  him  food  ;  yet  he  moved  not,  he 
looked  not,  he  spake  not, 

But,  with  a  vacant  stare,  ever  gazed  at  the  flick- 
ering fire-light. 

"  Benedicite  /"  murmured  the  priest,  in  tones  of 
compassion. 

More  he  fain  would  have  said,  but  his  heart  was 
full,  and  his  accents 


212  EVANGELINE. 

Faltered  and  paused  on  his  lips,  as  the  feet  of  a 

child  on  a  threshold, 
Hushed  by  the  scene  he  beholds,  and  the  awful 

presence  of  sorrow. 
Silently,  therefore,  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  head 

of  the  maiden, 
Raising  his  eyes,  full  of  tears,  to  the  silent  stars 

that  above  them 
Moved  on  their  way,  unperturbed  by  the  wrongs 

and  sorrows  of  mortals. 
Then  sat  he  down  at  her  side,  and  they  wrept 

together  in  silence. 

•   Suddenly  rose  from  the  south  a  light,  as  m 

autumn  the  blood-red 
Moon  climbs  the  crystal  walls  of  heaven,  and 

o'er  the  horizon 
Titan-like    stretches   its   hundred   hands  upon 

mountain  and  meadow, 


EVANGELINE. 


213 


Seizing  the  rocks  and  the  rivers,  and  piling  huge 

shadows  together. 
Broader  and  ever  broader  it  gleamed  on  the  roofs 

of  the  village, 
Gleamed  on  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  ships 

that  lay  in  the  roadstead. 
Columns  of  shining  smoke  uprose,  and  flashes  of 

flame  were 

Thrust  through  their  folds  and  withdrawn,  like 
the  quivering  hands  of  a  martyr. 

Then  as  the  wind  seized  the  gleeds  and  the  burn- 
ing thatch,  and,  uplifting, 

Whirled  them  aloft  through  the  air,  at  once  from 
a  hundred  house-tops 

Started  the  sheeted  smoke  with  flashes  of  flame 
intermingled. 

These  things  beheld  in  dismay  the  crowd  on 
the  shore  and  on  shipboard. 


214 


EVANGELINE. 


Speechless  at  first  they  stood,  then  cried  aloud  in 

their  anguish, 
£  c  We  shall  behold  no  more  v  our  homes  in  the 

village  of  Grand-Pre  !  " 
Loud  on  a  sudden  the  cocks  began  to  crow  in  the 

farm-yards, 

Thinking  the  day  had  dawned  ;  and  anon  the 

lowing  of  cattle 
Came  on  the  evening  breeze,  by  the  barking  of 

dogs  interrupted. 
Then  rose  a  sound  of  dread,  such  as  startles  the 

sleeping  encampments 
Far  in  the  western  prairies  or  forests  that  skirt 

the  Nebraska, 
When  the  wild  horses  affrighted  sweep  by  with 

the  speed  of  the  whirlwind, 
Or  the  loud  bellowing  herds  of  buffaloes  rush  to 

the  river. 

Such  was  the  sound  that  arose  on  the  night,  as 
the  herds  and  the  horses 


EVANGELINE. 


215 


Broke  through  their  folds  and  fences,  and  madly 
rushed  o'er  the  meadows. 

Overwhelmed  with  the  sight,  yet  speechless, 

the  priest  and  the  maiden 
Gazed  on  the  scene  of  terror  that  reddened  and 

widened  before  them  ; 
And  as  they  turned  at  length  to  speak  to  their 

silent  companion, 
Lo  !  from  his  seat  he  had  fallen,  and  stretched 

abroad  on  the  sea-shore 
Motionless  lay  his  form,  from  which  the  soul  had 

departed. 

Slowly  the  priest  uplifted  the  lifeless  head,  and 
the  maiden 

Knelt  at  her  father's  side,  and  wailed  aloud  in  her 
terror. 

Then  in  a  swoon  she  sank,  and  lay  with  her  head 
on  his  bosom. 


216 


EVANGELINE. 


Through  the  long  night  she  lay  in  deep,  oblivious 
slumber  ; 

And  when  she  woke  from  the  trance,  she  beheld 

a  multitude  near  her. 
Faces  of  friends  she  beheld,  that  were  mournfully 

gazing  upon  her, 
Pallid,  with  tearful  eyes,  and  looks  of  saddest 

compassion. 

Still  the  blaze  of  the  burning  village  illumined  the 
landscape, 

Reddened  the  sky  overhead,  and  gleamed  on  the 
faces  around  her, 

And  like  the  day  of  doom  it  seemed  to  her  wa- 
vering senses. 

Then  a  familiar  voice  she  heard,  as  it  said  to  the 
people,  — 

u  Let  us  bury  him  here  by  the  sea.    When  a 

happier  season 
Brings  us  again  to  our  homes  from  the  unknown 

land  of  our  exile, 


EVANGELINE. 


217 


Then  shall  his  sacred  dust  be  piously  laid  in  the 

church-yard." 
Such  were  the  words  of  the  priest.    And  there 

in  haste  by  the  sea-side, 
Having  the  glare  of  the  burning  village  for  funeral 

torches, 

But  without  bell  or  book,  they  buried  the  farmer 

of  Grand-Pre. 
And  as  the  voice  of  the  priest  repeated  the  service 

of  sorrow, 

Lo  !  with  a  mournful  sound,  like  the  voice  of  a 

vast  congregation, 
Solemnly  answered  the  sea,  and  mingled  its  roar 

with  the  dirges. 
'T  was  the  returning  tide,  that  afar  from  the 

waste  of  the  ocean, 
With  the  first  dawn  of  the  day,  came  heaving  and 

hurrying  landward. 
Then  recommenced  once  more  the  stir  and  noise 

of  embarking  ; 


218  EVANGELINE. 

And  with  the  ebb  of  that  tide  the  ships  sailed  out 

of  the  harbour, 
Leaving  behind  them  the  dead  on  the  shore,  and 

the  village  in  ruins. 


PART  THE  SECOND. 


Many  a  weary  year  had  passed  since  the  burning 

of  Grand-Pre, 
When  on  the  falling  tide  the  freighted  vessels 

departed, 

Bearing  a  nation,  with  all  its  household  gods,  into 
exile, 

Exile  without  an  end,  and  without  an  example  in 
story. 

Far  asunder,  on  separate  coasts,  the  Acadians 
landed  ; 

Scattered  were  they,  like  flakes  of  snow,  when 
the  wind  from  the  northeast 


220 


EVANGELINE. 


Strikes  aslant  through  the  fogs  that  darken  the 

Banks  of  Newfoundland. 
Friendless,  homeless,  hopeless,  they  wandered 

from  city  to  city, 
From  the    cold  lakes  of  the  North  to  sultry 

Southern  savannas,  — 
From  the  bleak  shores  of  the  sea  to  the  lands 

where  the  Father  of  Waters 
Seizes  the  hills  in  his  hands,  and  drags  them 

down  to  the  ocean, 
Deep  in  their  sands  to  bury  the  scattered  bones 

of  the  mammoth. 
Friends   they  sought  and  homes  ;   and  many, 

despairing,  heart-broken, 
Asked  of  the  earth  but  a  grave,  and  no  longer 

a  friend  nor  a  fireside. 
Written  their  history  stands  on  tablets  of  stone  in 

the  church-yards. 
Long  among  them  was  seen  a  maiden  who  waited 

and  wandered, 


EVANGELINE. 


221 


Lowly  and  meek  in  spirit,  and  patiently  suffer- 
ing all  things. 

Fair  was  she  and  young  ;  but,  alas  !  before  her 
extended, 

Dreary  and  vast  and  silent,  the  desert  of  life, 

with  its  pathway 
Marked  by  the  graves  of  those  who  had  sorrowed 

and  suffered  before  her, 
Passions  long  extinguished,  and  hopes  long  dead 

and  abandoned, 
As  the  emigrant's  way  o'er  the  Western  desert  is 

marked  by 

Camp-fires  long  consumed,  and  bones  that  bleach 
in  the  sunshine. 

Something  there  was  in  her  life  incomplete,  im- 
perfect, unfinished  ; 

As  if  a  morning  of  June,  with  all  its  music  and 
sunshine, 

Suddenly  paused  in  the  sky,  and,  fading,  slowly 
descended 


222 


.EVANGELINE. 


Into  the  east  again,  from  whence  it  late  had 
arisen. 

Sometimes  she  lingered  in  towns,  till,  urged  by 

the  fever  within  her, 
Urged  by  a  restless  longing,  the  hunger  and  thirst 

of  the  spirit, 
She  would  commence  again  her  endless  search 

and  endeavour  ; 
Sometimes  in  church-yards  strayed,  and  gazed  on 

the  crosses  and  tombstones, 
Sat  by  some  nameless  grave,  and  thought  that 

perhaps  in  its  bosom 
He  was  already  at  rest,  and  she  longed  to  slum- 
ber beside  him. 
Sometimes  a  rumor,  a  hearsay,  an  inarticulate 

whisper, 

Came  with  its  airy  hand  to  point  and  beckon  her 
forward . 

Sometimes  she  spake  with  those  who  had  seen 
her  beloved  and  known  him, 


EVANGELINE. 


223 


But  it  was  long  ago,  in  some  far-off  place  or  for- 
gotten. 

tC  Gabriel  Lajeunesse  !  "  said  they  ;  uO,  yes  ! 
we  have  seen  him. 

He  was  with  Basil  the  blacksmith,  and  both 
have  gone  to  the  prairies  ; 

C our eurs- ties- Bois  are  they,  and  famous  hunters 
and  trappers." 

"  Gabriel  Lajeunesse  ! 53  said  others  ;  "  O,  yes  ! 
we  have  seen  him. 

He  is  a  Voyageur  in  the  lowlands  of  Lou- 
isiana." 

Then  would  they  say,  —  "  Dear  child  !  why 
dream  and  wait  for  him  longer  ? 

Are  there  not  other  youths  as  fair  as  Gabriel  ? 
others 

Who  have  hearts  as  tender  and  true,  and  spirits  as 
loyal  ? 

Here  is  Baptiste  Leblanc,  the  notary's  son,  who 
has  loved  thee 


224 


EVANGELINE. 


Many  a  tedious  year  ;  come,  give  him  thy  hand 
and  be  happy  ! 

Thou  art  too  fair  to  be  left  to  braid  St.  Cath- 
erine's tresses." 

Then  would  Evangeline  answer,  serenely  but  sad- 
ly, —  "  I  cannot  ! 

Whither  my  heart  has  gone,  there  follows  my 
hand,  and  not  elsewhere. 

For  when  the  heart  goes  before,  like  a  lamp,  and 
illumines  the  pathway, 

Many  things  are  made  clear,  that  else  lie  hidden 
in  darkness." 

And  thereupon  the  priest,  her  friend  and  father- 
confessor, 

Said,  with  a  smile,  —  "  O  daughter  !  thy  God 

thus  speaketh  within  thee  ! 
Talk  not  of  wasted  affection,  affection  never  was 

wasted  ; 

If  it  enrich  not  the  heart  of  another,  its  waters, 
returning 


EVANGELINE. 


225 


Back  to  their  springs,  like  the  rain,  shall  fill  them 

full  of  refreshment  ; 
That  which  the  fountain  sends  forth  returns  again 

to  the  fountain. 
Patience  ;  accomplish  thy  labor  ;  accomplish  thy 

work  of  affection  ! 
Sorrow  and  silence  are  strong,  and  patient  en- 
durance is  godlike. 
Therefore  accomplish  thy  labor  of  love,  till  the 

heart  is  made  godlike, 
Purified,  strengthened,  perfected,  and  rendered 

more  worthy  of  heaven  !  " 
Cheered  by  the  good  man's  words,  Evangeline 

labored  and  waited. 
Still  in  her  heart  she  heard  the  funeral  dirge  of 

the  ocean, 

But  with  its  sound  there  was  mingled  a  voice  that 

whispered,  cc  Despair  not  !  " 
Thus  did  that  poor  soul  wander  in  want  and 

cheerless  discomfort. 


226  EVANGELINE. 

Bleeding,  barefooted,  over  the  shards  and  thorns 
of  existence. 

Let  me  essay,  O  Muse  !  to  follow  the  wanderer's 
footsteps ;  — 

Not  through,  each  devious  path,  each  change 
ful  year  of  existence  ; 

But  as  a  traveller  follows  a  streamlet's  course 
through  the  valley  : 

Far  from  its  margin  at  times,  and  seeing  the 
gleam  of  its  water 

Here  and  there,  in  some  open  space,  and  at  in- 
tervals only  ; 

Then  drawing  nearer  its  banks,  through  sylvan 
glooms  that  conceal  it, 

Though  he  behold  it  not,  he  can  hear  its  con- 
tinuous murmur  ; 

Happy,  at  length,  if  he  find  the  spot  where  it 
reaches  an  outlet. 


II. 


It  was  the  month  of  May.    Far  down  the  Beau- 
tiful River, 

Past  the  Ohio  shore  and  past  the  mouth  of  the 
Wabash, 

Into  the  golden  stream  of  the  broad  and  swift 
Mississippi, 

Floated  a  cumbrous  boat,  that  was  rowed  by 

Acadian  boatmen. 
It  was  a  band  of  exiles  :  a  raft,  as  it  were,  from 

the  shipwrecked 
Nation,  scattered  along  the  coast,  now  floating 

together, 


228 


EVANGELINE. 


ound  by  the  bonds  of  a  common  belief  and  a 

common  misfortune  ; 
Men  and  women  and  children,  who,  guided  by 

hope  or  by  hearsay, 
Sought  for  their  kith  and  their  kin  among  the 

few-acred  farmers 
On  the  Acadian  coast,  and  the  prairies  of  fair 

Opelousas. 

With  them  Evangeline  went,  and  her  guide,  the 

Father  Felician. 
Onward  o'er  sunken  sands,  through  a  wilderness 

sombre  with  forests, 
Day  after  day  they  glided  adown  the  turbulent 

river  ; 

Night  after  night,  by  their  blazing  fires,  en- 
camped on  its  borders. 

Now  through  rushing  chutes,  among  green  islands, 
where  plumelike 

Cotton-trees  nodded  their  shadowy  crests,  they 
swept  with  the  current, 


EVANGELINE. 


229 


Then  emerged  into  broad  lagoons,  where  silvery- 
sand-bars 

Lay  in  the  stream,  and  along  the  wimpling  waves 

of  their  margin, 
Shining  with  snow-white  plumes,  large  flocks  of 

pelicans  waded. 
Level  the  landscape  grew,  and  along  the  shores 

of  the  river, 

Shaded  by  china-trees,  in  the  midst  of  luxuriant 
gardens, 

Stood  the  houses  of  planters,  with  negro-cabins 
and  dove-cots. 

They  were  approaching  the  region  where  reigns 

perpetual  summer, 
-Where  through  the  Golden  Coast,  and  groves 
of  orange  and  citron, 

Sweeps  with  majestic  curve  the  river  away  to 
the  eastward. 

They,  too,  swerved  from  their  course  ;  and,  en- 
tering the  Bayou  of  Plaquemine, 


230 


EVANGELINE. 


Soon  were  lost  in  a  maze  of  sluggish  and  devious 
waters, 

Which,  like  a  network  of  steel,  extended  in 

every  direction. 
Over  their  heads  the  towering   and  tenebrous 

boughs  of  the  cypress 
Met  in  a  dusky  arch,  and  trailing  mosses  in  mid 

air 

Waved  like  banners  that  hang  on  the  walls  of 

ancient  cathedrals. 
Deathlike  the  silence  seemed,  and  unbroken,  save 

by  the  herons 
Home  to  their  roosts  in  the  cedar-trees  returning 

at  sunset, 

Or  by  the  owl,  as  he  greeted  the  moon  with 

demoniac  laughter. 
Lovely  the   moonlight   was  as  it  glanced  and 

gleamed  on  the  water, 
Gleamed  on  the  columns  of  cypress  and  cedar 

sustaining  the  arches, 


EVANGELINE. 


231 


Down  through  whose  broken  vaults  it  fell  as 
through  chinks  in  a  ruin. 

Dreamlike,  and  indistinct,  and  strange  were  all 
things  around  them  ; 

And  o'er  their  spirits  there  came  a  feeling  of 
wonder  and  sadness,  — 

Strange  forebodings  of  ill,  unseen  and  that  can- 
not be  compassed. 

As,  at  the  tramp  of  a  horse's  hoof  on  the  turf  of 
the  prairies, 

Far  in   advance  are  closed  the  leaves  of  the 

shrinking  mimosa. 
So,  at  the  hoof-beats  of  fate,  with  sad  forebodings 

of  evil, 

Shrinks  and  closes  the  heart,  ere  the  stroke  of 

doom  has  attained  it. 
But  Evangeline's  heart  was  sustained  by  a  vision, 

that  faintly 

Floated  before  her  eyes,  and  beckoned  her  on 
through  the  moonlight. 


232 


EVANGELINE. 


It  was  the  thought  of  her  brain  that  assumed  the 
shape  of  a  phantom. 

Through  those  shadowy  aisles  had  Gabriel  wan- 
dered before  her, 

And  every  stroke  of  the  oar  now  brought  him 
nearer  and  nearer. 

Then  in  his  place,  at  the  prow  of  the  boat, 
rose  one  of  the  oarsmen, 
And,  as  a  signal  sound,  if  others  like  them  per- 
adventure 

Sailed  on  those  gloomy  and  midnight  streams, 

blew  a  blast  on  his  bugle. 
Wild  through  the  dark  colonnades  and  corridors 

leafy  the  blast  rang, 
Breaking  the  seal  of  silence,  and  giving  tongues 

to  the  forest. 
Soundless  above  them  the  banners  of  moss  just 

stirred  to  the  music. 


EVANGELINE. 


233 


Multitudinous  echoes  awoke  and  died  in  the 
distance, 

Over  the  watery  floor,  and  beneath  the  rever- 
berant branches  ; 

But  not  a  voice  replied  ;  no  answer  came  from 
the  darkness  ; 

And  when  the  echoes  had  ceased,  like  a  sense 
of  pain  was  the  silence. 

Then  Evangeline  slept  ;  but  the  boatmen  rowed 
through  the  midnight, 

Silent  at  times,  then  singing  familiar  Canadian 
boat-songs, 

Such  as  they  sang  of  old  on  their  own  Acadian 
rivers. 

And  through  the  night  were  heard  the  mysterious 

sounds  of  the  desert, 
Far  off,  indistinct,  as  of  wave  or  wind  in  the 

forest, 

Mixed  with  the  whoop  of  the  crane  and  the  roar 
of  the  grim  alligator. 


EVANGELINE.  ■ 

Thus  ere  another   noon  they  emerged  from 
those  shades  ;  and  before  them 
Lay 3  in  the  golden  sun,  the  lakes  of  the  Ateha- 
falaya. 

Water-lilies  in  myriads  rocked  on  the  slight  undu- 
lations 

Made  by  the  passing  oars,  and,  resplendent  in 

beauty,  the  lotus 
Lifted  her  golden  crown  above  the  heads  of  the 

boatmen. 

Faint  was  the  air  with  the  odorous  breath  of  mag- 
nolia blossoms, 

And  with  the  heat  of  noon  ;  and  numberless  syl- 
van islands, 

Fragrant  and  thickly  embowered  with  blossoming 

hedges  of  roses. 
Near  to  whose  shores  they  glided  along,  invited  to 

slumber. 

Soon  by  the  fairest  of  these  their  weary  oars  were 
suspended. 


EVANGELINE. 


235 


Under  the  boughs  of  Wachita  willows,  that  grew 
by  the  margin, 

Safely  their  boat  was  moored  ;  and  scattered 
about  on  the  greensward, 

Tired  with  their  midnight  toil,  the  weary  trav- 
ellers slumbered. 

Over  them  vast  and  high  extended  the  cope  of  a 
cedar. 

Swinging  from  its  great  arms,  the  trumpet-flower 

and  the  grape-vine 
Hung  their  ladder  of  ropes  aloft  like  the  ladder 

of  Jacob, 

On  whose  pendulous  stairs  the  angels  ascending, 
descending, 

Were  the  swift  humming-birds,  that  flitted  from 
blossom  to  blossom. 

Such  was  the  vision  Evangeline  saw  as  she  slum- 
bered beneath  it. 

Filled  was  her  heart  with  love,  and  the  dawn  of 
an  opening  heaven 


236 


EVANGELINE. 


Lighted  her  soul  in  sleep  with  the  glory  of 
regions  celestial. 

Nearer  and  ever  nearer,  among  the  numberless 
islands, 

Darted  a  light,  swift  boat,  that  sped  away  o'er 
the  water, 

Urged  on  its  course  by  the  sinewy  arms  of  hunters 

and  trappers. 
Northward  its  prow  was  turned,  to  the  land  of 

the  bison  and  beaver. 
At  the  helm  sat   a  youth,  with-  countenance 

thoughtful  and  careworn. 
Dark  and  neglected  locks  overshadowed  his  brow, 

and  a  sadness 
Somewhat  beyond  his  years  on  his  face  was 

legibly  written. 
Gabriel  was  it,  who,  weary  with  waiting,  unhappy 

and  restless, 


EVANGELINE. 


237 


Sought  in  the  Western  wilds  oblivion  of  self  and 
of  sorrow. 

Swiftly  they  glided  along,  close  under  the  lee  of 
the  island, 

But  by  the  opposite  bank,  and  behind  a  screen 

of  palmettos, 
So  that  they  saw  not  the  boat,  where  it  lay  con- 
cealed in  the  willows, 
And  undisturbed  by  the  dash  of  their  oars,  and 

unseen,  were  the  sleepers ; 
Angel  of  God  was  there  none  to  awaken  the 

slumbering  maiden. 
Swiftly  they  glided  away,  like  the  shade  of  a 

cloud  on  the  prairie. 
After  the  sound  of  their  oars  on  the  tholes  had 

died  in  the  distance, 
As  from  a  magic  trance  the  sleepers  awoke,  and 

the  maiden 

Said  with  a  sigh  to  the  friendly  priest,  —  u  O  Fa 
ther  Felician  ! 


238 


E  VANGELINE. 


Something  says  in  my  heart  that  near  me  Gabriel 
wanders. 

Is  it  a  foolish  dream,  an  idle  and  vague  super- 
stition ? 

Or  has  an  angel  passed,  and  revealed  the  truth  to 
my  spirit  ?  " 

Then,  with  a  blush,  she  added,  —  u  Alas  for  my 

credulous  fancy  ! 
Unto  ears  like  thine  such  words  as  these  have  no 

meaning." 

But  made  answer  the  reverend  man,  and  he 

smiled  as  he  answered,  — 
u  Daughter,  thy  words  are  not  idle  ;  nor  are  they 

to  me  without  meaning. 
Feeling  is  deep  and  still ;  and  the  word  that  floats 

on  the  surface 
Is  as  the  tossing  buoy,  that  betrays  where  the 

anchor  is  hidden. 
Therefore  trust  to  thy  heart,  and  to  what  the 

world  calls  illusions. 


EVANGELINE. 


239 


Gabriel  truly  is  near  thee  ;  for  not  far  away  to 

the  southward, 
On  the  banks  of  the  Teche,  are  the  towns  of  St. 

Maur  and  St.  Martin. 
There  the  long- wandering  bride  shall  be  given 

again  to  her  bridegroom, 
There  the  long-absent  pastor  regain  his  flock  and 

his  sheepfold. 
Beautiful  is  the  land,  with  its  prairies  and  forests 

of  fruit-trees  ; 
Under  the  feet  a  garden  of  flowers,  and  the  bluest 

of  heavens 

Bending  above,  and  resting  its  dome  on  the  walls 

of  the  forest. 
They  who  dwell  there  have  named  it  the  Eden 

of  Louisiana." 

And  with  these  words  of  cheer  they  arose  and 
continued  their  journey. 


240 


EVANGELINE. 


Softly  the  evening  came.    The  sun  from  the 

western  horizon 
Like  a  magician  extended  his  golden  wand  o'er 

the  landscape  ; 
Twinkling  vapors  arose  ;  and  sky  and  water  and 

forest 

Seemed  all  on  fire  at  the  touch,  and  melted  and 

mingled  together. 
Hanging  between  two  skies,  a  cloud  with  edges 

of  silver, 

Floated  the  boat,  with  its  dripping  oars,  on  the 

motionless  water. 
Filled  was  Evangeline's  heart  with  inexpressible 

sweetness. 

Touched  by  the  magic  spell,  the  sacred  fountains 
of  feeling 

Glowed  with  the  light  of  love,  as  the  skies  and 
waters  around  her. 

Then  from  a  neighbouring  thicket  the  mocking- 
bird, wildest  of  singers, 


EVANGELINE. 


241 


Swinging  aloft  on  a  willow  spray  that  hung  o'er 
the  water, 

Shook  from  his  little  -throat  such  floods  of  de- 
lirious music. 
That  the  whole  air  and  the  woods  and  the  waves 

seemed  silent  to  listen. 
Plaintive  at  first  were  the  tones  and  sad  ;  then 

soaring  to  madness 
Seemed  they  to  follow  or  guide  the  revel  of 

frenzied  Bacchantes. 
Single  notes  were  then  heard,  in  sorrowful,  low 

lamentation  ; 
Till,  having  gathered  them  all,  he  flung  them 

abroad  in  derision, 
As  when,  after  a  storm,  a  gust  of  wind  through 

the  tree-tops 

Shakes  down  the  rattling  rain  in  a  crystal  shower 

on  the  branches. 
With  such  a  prelude  as  this',  and  hearts  that 

throbbed  with  emotion, 


242 


EVANGELINE. 


Slowly  they  entered  the  Teche,  where  it  flows 
through  the  green  Opelousas, 

And  through  the  amber  air,  above  the  crest  of 
the  woodland, 

Saw  the  column  of  smoke  that  arose  from  a  neigh- 
bouring dwelling  ;  — 

Sounds  of  a  horn  they  heard,  and  the  distant 
lowing  of  cattle. 


III. 


Near  to  the  bank  of  the  river,  o'ershadowed  by 
oaks,  from  whose  branches 

Garlands  of  Spanish  moss  and  of  mystic  mistle- 
toe flaunted, 

Such  as  the  Druids  cut  down  with  golden  hatch- 
ets at  Yule-tide, 

Stood,  secluded  and  still,  the  house  of  the  herds- 
man.   A  garden 

Girded  it  round  about  with  a  belt  of  luxuriant 
blossoms, 

Filling  the  air  with  fragrance.  The  house  itself 
was  of  timbers 


244 


EVANGELINE. 


Hewn  from  the  cypress-tree,  and  carefully  fitted 
together. 

Large  and  low  was  the  roof;  and  on  slender 
columns  supported, 

Rose-wreathed,  vine-encircled,  a  broad  and  spa- 
cious veranda, 

Haunt  of  the  humming-bird  and  the  bee,  extend- 
ed around  it. 

At  each  end  of  the  nouse,  amid  the  flowers  of 
the  garden, 

Stationed  the  dove-cots  were,  as  love's  perpetual 
symbol, 

Scenes  of  endless  wooing,  and  endless  conten- 
tions of  rivals. 

Silence  reigned  o'er  the  place.  The  line  of 
shadow  and  sunshine 

Ran  near  the  tops  of  the  trees  ;  but  the  house 
itself  was  in  shadow, 

And  from  its  chimney-top,  ascending  and  slowly 
expanding 


EVAHGELINE. 


245 


Into  the  evening  air,  a  thin  blue  column  of  smoke 
rose. 

In  the  rear  of  the  house,  from  the  garden  gate, 

ran  a  pathway 
Through  the  great  groves  of  oak  to  the  skirts  of 

the  limitless  prairie, 
Into  whose  sea  of  flowers  the  sun  was  slowly 

descending. 

Full  in  his  track  of  light,  like  ships  with  shadowy 
canvas 

Hanging  loose  from  their  spars  in  a  motionless 

calm  in  the  tropics, 
Stood  a  cluster  of  trees,  with  tangled  cordage  of 

grape-vines. 

Just  where  the  woodlands  met  the  flowery  surf 
of  the  prairie, 
Mounted  upon  his  horse,  with  Spanish  saddle  and 
stirrups, 


246  EVANGELINE. 

Sat  a  herdsman,  arrayed  in  gaiters  and  doublet 
of  deerskin. 

Broad  and  brown  was  the  face  that  from  under 
the  Spanish  sombrero 

Gazed  on  the  peaceful  scene,  with  the  lordly  look 
of  its  master. 

Round  about  him  were  numberless  herds  of  kine, 
that  were  grazing 

Quietly  in  the  meadows,  and  breathing  the  va- 
pory freshness 

That  uprose  from  the  river,  and  spread  itself 
over  the  landscape. 

Slowly  lifting  the  horn  that  hung  at  his  side,  and 
expanding 

Fully  his  broad,  deep  chest,  he  blew  a  blast,  that 
resounded 

Wildly  and  sweet  and  far,  through  the  still  damp 

air  of  the  evening. 
Suddenly  out  of  the  grass  the  long  white  horns 

of  the  cattle 


EVANGELINE. 


247 


Rose  like  flakes  of  foam  on  the  adverse  currents 
of  ocean. 

Silent   a  moment  they  gazed,  then  bellowing 

rushed  o'er  the  prairie, 
And  the  whole  mass  became  a  cloud,  a  shade  in 

the  distance. 

Then,  as  the  herdsman  turned  to  the  house, 

through  the  gate  of  the  garden 
Saw  he  the  forms  of  the  priest  and  the  maiden 

advancing  to  meet  him. 
Suddenly  down  from  his   horse  he  sprang  in 

amazement,  and  forward 
Rushed  with  extended  arms  and  exclamations  of 

wonder  ; 

When   they  beheld  his  face,  they  recognized 

Basil  the  Blacksmith. 
Hearty  his  welcome  was,  as  he  led  his  guests  to 

the  garden. 

There  in  an  arbour  of  roses  with  endless  question 
and  answer 


248 


EVANGELINE. 


Gave  they  vent  to  their  hearts,  and  renewed  their 

friendly  embraces, 
Laughing  and  weeping  by  turns,  or.  sitting  silent 

and  thoughtful. 
Thoughtful,  for  Gabriel  came  not  ;  and  now  dark 

doubts  and  misgivings 
Stole  o'er  the  maiden's  heart ;  and  Basil,  some- 
what embarrassed, 
Broke  the  silence  and  said,  —  u  If  you  came  by 

the  Atchafalaya, 
How  have  you  nowhere  encountered  my  Gabriel's 

boat  on  the  bayous  ?  " 
Over  Evangeline's  face  at  the  words  of  Basil  a 

shade  passed. 
Tears  came  into  her  eyes,  and  she  said,  with  a 

tremulous  accent,  — 
"  Gone  ?  is  Gabriel  gone  ?  "  and,  concealing  her 

face  on  his  shoulder, 
All  her  o'erburdened  h^art  gave  way,  and  she 

wept  and  lamented. 


EVANGELINE.  249 

Then  the  good  Basil  said,  —  and  his  voice  grew 

blithe  as  he  said  it,  — 
cc  Be  of  good  cheer,  my  child  ;  it  is  only  to-day 

he  departed. 

Foolish  boy  !  he  has  left  me  alone  with  my  herds 

and  my  horses. 
Moody  and  restless  grown,  and  tried  and  troubled, 

his  spirit 

Could  no  longer  endure  the  calm  of  this  quiet 
existence. 

Thinking  ever  of  thee,  uncertain  and  sorrowful 
ever, 

Ever  silent,  or  speaking  only  of  thee  and  his 
troubles, 

He  at  length  had  become  so  tedious  to  men  and 
to  maidens, 

Tedious  even  to  me,  that  at  length  I  bethought 

me,  and  sent  him 
Unto  the  town  of  Adayes  to  trade  for  mules  with 

the  Spaniards. 


250 


EVANGELINE. 


Thence  he  will  follow  the  Indian  trails  to  the 

Ozark  Mountains, 
Hunting  for  furs  in  the  forests,  on  rivers  trapping 

the  beaver. 

Therefore  be  of  good  cheer  ;  we  will  follow  the 

fugitive  lover  ; 
He  is  not  far  on  his  way,  and  the  Fates  and  the 

streams  are  against  him. 
Up  and  away  to-morrow,  and  through  the  red 

dew  of  the  morning 
We  will  follow  him  fast,  and  bring  him  back  to 

his  prison." 


Then  glad  voices  were  heard,  and  up  from  the 
banks  of  the  river, 
Borne  aloft  on  his  comrades'  arms,  came  Michael 
the  fiddler. 

Long  under  Basil's  roof  had  he  lived  like  a  god 
on  Olympus, 


EVANGELINE. 


251 


Having  no  other  care  than  dispensing  music  to 
mortals. 

Far  renowned  was  he  for  his  silver  locks  and  his 
fiddle. 

u  Long  live  Michael,"  they  cried,  "our  brave 
Acadian  minstrel  !  55 

As  they  bore  him  aloft  in -triumphal  procession  ; 
and  straightway 

Father  Felician  advanced  with  Evangeline,  greet- 
ing the  old  man 

Kindly  and  oft,  and  recalling  the  past,  while 
Basil,  enraptured, 

Hailed  with  hilarious  joy  his  old  companions  and 
gossips, 

Laughing  loud  and  long,  and  embracing  mothers 

and  daughters. 
Much  they  marvelled  to  see  the  wealth  of  the 

ci-devant  blacksmith, 
All  his  domains  and  his  herds,  and  his  patriarchal 

demeanour  ; 


252 


EVANGELINE. 


Much  they  marvelled  to  hear  his  tales  of  the  soil 

and  the  climate, 
And  of  the  prairies,  whose  numberless  herds  were 

his  who  would  take  them  ; 
Each  one  thought  in  his  heart,  that  he,  too,  would 

go  and  do  likewise. 
Thus  they  ascended  the  steps,  and,  crossing  the 

airy  veranda, 
Entered  the  hall  of  the  house,  where  already  the 

supper  of  Basil 
Waited  his  late  return  ;   and  they  rested  and 

feasted  together. 

Over  the  joyous  feast  the   sudden  darkness 
descended. 

All  was  silent  without,  and,  illuming  the  landscape 
with  silver, 

Fair  rose  the  dewy  moon  and  the  myriad  stars  ; 
but  within  doors, 


EVANGELINE. 


253 


Brighter  than  these,  shone  the  faces  of  friends  in 

the  glimmering  lamplight. 
Then  from  his  station  aloft,  at  the  head  of  the 

table,  the  herdsman 
Poured  forth  his  heart  and  his  wine  together  in 

endless  profusion. 
Lighting  his  pipe,  that  was  filled  with  sweet 

Natchitoches  tobacco, 
Thus  he  spake  to  his  guests,  who  listened,  and 

smiled  as  they  listened  :  — 
cc  Welcome  once  more,  my  friends,  who  so  long 

have  been  friendless  and  homeless, 
Welcome  once  more  to  a  home,  that  is  better 

perchance  than  the  old  one  ! 
Here  no  hungry  winter  congeals  our  blood  like 

the  rivers  ; 

Here  no  stony  ground  provokes  the  wrath  of  the 
;  farmer. 

Smoothly  the  ploughshare  runs  through  the  soil 
as  a  keel  through  the  water. 


254 


EVANGELINE. 


All  the  year  round  the  orange-groves  are  in  blos- 
som ;  and  grass  grows 

More  in  a  single  night  than  a  whole  Canadian 
summer. 

Here,  too,  numberless  herds  run  wild  and  un- 
claimed in  the  prairies  ; 

Here,  too,  lands  may  be  had  for  the  asking,  and 
forests  of  timber 

With  a  few  blows  of  the  axe  are  hewn  and  framed 
into  houses. 

After  your  houses  are  built,  and  your  fields  are 

yellow  with  harvests, 
No  King  George  of  England  shall  drive  you  away 

from  your  homesteads, 
Burning  your  dwellings  and  barns,  and  stealing 

your  farms  and  your  cattle." 
Speaking  these  words,  he  blew  a  wrathful  cloud 

from  his  nostrils, 
And  his  huge,  brawny  hand  came  thundering 

down  on  the  table, 


EVANGELINE. 


255 


So  that  the  guests  all  started  ;  and  Father  Feli- 

cian,  astounded, 
Suddenly  paused,  with  a  pinch  of  snuff  half-way 

to  his  nostrils. 
But  the  brave  Basil  resumed,  and  his  words  were. 

milder  and  gayer  :  — 
u  Only  beware  of  the  fever,  my  friends,  beware 

of  the  fever  ! 
For  it  is  not  like  that  of  our  cold  Acadian 

climate, 

Cured  by  wearing  a  spider  hung  round  one's  neck 
in  a  nutshell !  " 

Then  there  were  voices  heard  at  the  door,  and 
footsteps  approaching 

Sounded  upon  .the  stairs  and  the  floor  of  the 
breezy  veranda. 

It  was  the  neighbouring  Creoles  and  small  Aca- 
dian planters, 

Who  had  been  summoned  all  to  the  hous-e  of 
Basil  the  Herdsman. 


256  EVANGELINE. 

Merry  the  meeting  was  of  ancient  comrades 

and  neighbours  : 
Friend  clasped  friend  in  his  arms  ;  and  they  who 

before  were  as  strangers, 
Meeting  in  exile,  became  straightway  as  friends 

to  each  other, 
Drawn  by  the  gentle  bond  of  a  common  country 

together. 

But  in  the  neighbouring  hall  a  strain  of  music, 
proceeding 

From  the  accordant  strings  of  Michael's  melo- 
dious fiddle, 

Broke  up  all  further  speech.  Away,  like  chil- 
dren delighted, 

All  things  forgotten  beside,  they  gave  themselves 
to  the  maddening 

Whirl  of  the  dizzy  dance,  as  it  swept  and  swayed 
to  the  music, 

Dreamlike,  with  beaming  eyes  and  the  rush  of 
fluttering  garments. 


EVANGELINE. 


257 


Meanwhile,  apart,  at  the  head  of  the  hall,  the 
priest  and  the  herdsman 
Sat,  conversing  together  of  past  and  present  and 
future  ; 

While  Evangeline  stood  like  one  entranced,  for 
within  her 

Olden  memories  rose,  and  loud  in  the  midst  of 
the  music 

Heard  she  the  sound  of  the  sea,  and  an  irrepress- 
ible sadness 

Came  o'er  her  heart,  and  unseen  she  stole  forth 

into  the  garden. 
Beautiful  was  the  night.    Behind  the  black  wall 

of  the  forest, 
Tipping  its  summit  with  silver,  arose  the  moon. 

On  the  river 

Fell  here  and  there  through  the  branches  a  tremu- 
lous gleam  of  the  moonlight, 

Like  the  sweet  thoughts  of  love  on  a  darkened 
and  devious  spirit. 


258  EVANGELINE. 

Nearer  and  round  about  her,  the  manifold  flowers 

of  the  garden 
Poured  out  their  souls  in  odors,  that  were  their 

prayers  and  confessions 
Unto  the  night,  as  it  went  its  way,  like  a  silent 

Carthusian. 

Fuller  of  fragrance  than  they,  and  as  heavy  with 
shadows  and  night-dews, 

Hung  the  heart  of  the  maiden.  The  calm  and 
the  magical  moonlight 

Seemed  to  inundate  her  soul  with  indefinable  long- 
ings, 

As,  through  the  garden  gate,  beneath  the  brown 

shade  of  the  oak-trees, 
Passed  she  along  the  path  to  the  edge  of  the 

measureless  prairie. 
Silent  it  lay,  with  a  silvery  haze  upon  it,  and 

fire-flies 

Gleaming  and  floating  away  in  mingled  and  in- 
finite numbers. 


EVANGELINE. 


259 


Over  her  head  the  stars,  the  thoughts  of  God  in 
the  heavens, 

Shone  on  the  eyes  of  man,  who  had  ceased  to 

marvel  and  worship, 
Save  when  a  blazing  comet  was  seen  on  the  walls 

of  that  temple, 
As  if  a  hand  had  appeared  and  written  upon  them, 

"  Upharsin." 
And  the  soul  of  the  maiden,  between  the  stars 

and  the  fire-flies, 
Wandered  alone,  and  she  cried,  —  "  O  Gabriel  ! 

O  my  beloved  ! 
Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  I  cannot 

behold  thee  ? 
Art  thou  so  near  unto  me,  and  yet  thy  voice  does 

not  reach  me  ? 
Ah  !  how  often  thy  feet  have  trod  this  path  to 

the  prairie  ! 

Ah  !  how  often  thine  eyes  have  looked  on  the 
woodlands  around  me  ! 


260 


EVANGELINE. 


Ah  !  how  often  beneath  this  oak,  returning  from 
labor. 

Thou  hast  lain  down  to  rest,  and  to  dream  of  me 

in  thy  slumbers. 
When  shall  these  eyes  behold,  these  arms  be 

folded  about  thee  ?  " 
Loud  and  sudden  and  near  the  note  of  a  whip- 

poorwill  sounded 
Like  a  flute  in  the  woods  ;  and  anon,  through  the 

neighbouring  thickets, 
Farther  and  farther  away  it  floated  and  dropped 

into  silence. 

"  Patience  !  "  whispered  the  oaks  from  orac- 
ular caverns  of  darkness  ; 

And,  from  the  moonlit  meadow,  a  sigh  respond- 
ed, "  To-morrow  !  " 

Bright  rose  the  sun  next  day ;  and  all  the 
flowers  of  the  garden 


EVANGELINE.  261 

Bathed  his  shining  feet  with  their  tears,  and 

anointed  his  tresses 
With  the  delicious  balm  that  they  bore  in  their 

vases  of  crystal. 
u  Farewell  !  "  said  the  priest,  as  he  stood  at  the 

shadowy  threshold ; 
u  See  that  you  bring  us  the  Prodigal  Son  from 

his  fasting  and  famine, 
And,  too,  the  Foolish  Virgin,  who  slept  when  the 

bridegroom  was  coming." 
cc  Farewell  !  "  answered  the  maiden,  and,  smil- 
ing, with  Basil  descended 
Down  to  the  river's  brink,  where  the  boatmen 

already  were  waiting. 
Thus  beginning  their  journey  with  morning,  and 

sunshine,  and  gladness, 
Swiftly  they  followed  the  flight  of  him  who  was 

speeding  before  them, 
Blown  by  the  blast  of  fate  like  a  dead  leaf  over 

the  desert. 


262 


EVANGELINE. 


Not  that  day,  nor  the  next,  nor  yet  the  day  that 
succeeded, 

Found  they  trace  of  his  course,  in  lake  or  forest 
or  river, 

Nor,  after  many  days,  had  they  found  him  ;  but 

vague  and  uncertain 
Rumors  alone  were  their  guides  through  a  wild 

and  desolate  country ; 
Till,  at  the  little  inn  of  the  Spanish  town  of 

Adayes, 

Weary  and  worn,  they  alighted,  and  learned  from 

the  garrulous  landlord, 
That  on  the  day  before,,  with  horses  and  guides 

and  companions, 
Gabriel  left  the  village,  and  took  the  road  of  the 

prairies. 


IV. 


Far  in  the  West  there  lies  a  desert  land, 
where  the  mountains 

Lift,  through  perpetual  snows,  their  lofty  and 
luminous  summits. 

Down  from  their  jagged,  deep  ravines,  where 
the  gorge,  like  a  gateway, 

Opens  a  passage  rude  to  the  wheels  of  the  emi- 
grant's wagon, 

Westward  the  Oregon  flows  and  the  Walleway 
and  Owyhee. 

Eastward,  with  devious  course,  among  the  Wind- 
river  Mountains, 


264  EVANGELINE. 

Through  the  Sweet-water  Valley  precipitate  leaps 
the  Nebraska  ; 

And  to  the  south,  from  Fontaine-qui-bout  and  the 
Spanish  sierras, 

Fretted  with  sands  and  rocks,  and  swept  by  the 
wind  of  the  desert, 

Numberless  torrents,  witn  ceaseless  sound,  de- 
scend to  the  ocean, 

Like  the  great  chords  of  a  harp,  in  loud  and 
solemn  vibrations. 

Spreading  between  these  streams  are  the  won- 
drous, beautiful  prairies, 

Billowy  bays  of  grass  ever  rolling  in  shadow  and 
sunshine, 

Bright  with  luxuriant  clusters  of  roses  and  purple 
amorphas. 

Over  them  wander  the  buffalo  herds,  and  the  elk 
and  the  roebuck  ; 

Over  them  wander  the  wolves,  and  herds  of  rider- 
less horses  ; 


EVANGELINE. 


265 


Fires  that  blast  and  blight,  and  winds  that  are 

weary  with  travel  ; 
Over  them  wander  the  scattered  tribes  of  Ish- 

mael's  children, 
Staining  the  desert  with  blood  ;  and  above  their 

terrible  war-trails 
Circles  and  sails  aloft,  on  pinions  majestic,  the 

vulture, 

Like  the  implacable  soul  of  a  chieftain  slaugh- 
tered in  battle, 

By  invisible  stairs  ascending  and  scaling  the 
heavens. 

Here  and  there  rise  smokes  from  the  camps  of 

these  savage  marauders  ; 
Here  and  there  rise  groves  from  the  margins  of 

swift-running  rivers  ; 
And  the  grijn,  taciturn  bear,  the  anchorite  monk 

of  the  desert, 
Climbs  down  their  dark  ravines  to  dig  for  roots 

by  the  brook-side, 


266 


EVANGELINE. 


And  over  all  is  the  sky,  the  clear  and  crystalline 
heaven, 

Like  the  protecting  hand  of  God  inverted  above 
them. 

Into  this  wonderful  land,  at  the  base  of  the 

Ozark  Mountains, 
Gabriel  far  had  entered,  with  hunters  and  trap- 
pers behind  him. 
Day  after  day,  with  their  Indian  guides,  the 

maiden  and  Basil 
Followed  his  flying  steps,  and  thought  each  day 

to  o'ertake  him. 
Sometimes  they  saw,  or  thought  they  saw,  the 

smoke  of  his  camp-fire 
Rise  in  the  morning  air  from  the  distant  plain; 

but  at  nightfall, 
When  they  had  reached  the  place,  they  found 

only  embers  and  ashes. 


EVANGELINE. 


267 


And,  though  their  hearts  were  sad  at  times  and 

their  bodies  were  weary, 
Hope  still  guided  them  on,  as  the  magic  Fata 

Morgana 

Showed  them  her  lakes  of  light,  that  retreated  and 
vanished  before  them. 


Once,  as  they  sat  by  their  evening  fire,  there 
silently  entered 
Into  the  little  camp  an  Indian  woman,  whose 
features 

Wore  deep  traces  of  sorrow,  and  patience  as 

great  as  her  sorrow. 
She  was  a  Shawnee  woman  returning  home  to 

her  people, 

From  the  far-off  hunting-grounds  of  the  crueJ 
Camanches, 

Where  her  Canadian  husband,  a  Coureur-des- 
Bois,  had  been  murdered. 


268 


EVANGELINE. 


Touched  were  their  hearts  at  her  story,  and 
warmest  and  friendliest  welcome 

Gave  they,  with  words  of  cheer,  and  she  sat  and 
feasted  among  them 

On  the  buffalo-meat  and  the  venison  cooked  on 
the  embers. 

But  when  their  meal  was  done,  and  Basil  and  all 

his  companions, 
Worn  with  the  long  day's  march  and  the  chase 

of  the  deer  and  the  bison, 
Stretched  themselves  on  the  ground,  and  slept 

where  the  quivering  fire-light 
Flashed  on  their  swarthy  cheeks,  and  their  forms 

wrapped  up  in  their  blankets, 
Then  at  the  door  of  Evangeline's  tent  she  sat 

and  repeated 
Slowly,  with  soft,  low  voice,  and  the  charm  of 

her  Indian  accent, 
All  the  tale  of  her  love,  with  its  pleasures,  and 

pains,  and  reverses. 


EVANGELINE, 


269 


Much  Evangeline  wept  at  the  tale,  and  to  know 
that  another 

Hapless  heart  like  her  own  had  loved  and  had 
been  disappointed. 

Moved  to  the  depths  of  her  soul  by  pity  and 
woman's  compassion, 

Yet  in  her  sorrow  pleased  that  one  who  had 
suffered  was  near  her, 

She  in  turn  related  her  love  and  all  its  disas- 
ters. 

Mute  with  wonder  the  Shawnee  sat,  and  when 

she  had  ended 
Still  was  mute  ;  but  at  length,  as  if  a  mysterious 

horror 

Passed  through  her  brain,  she  spake,  and  re- 
peated the  tale  of  the  Mowis  ; 

Mowis,  the  bridegroom  of  snow,  who  won  and 
wedded  a  maiden, 

But,  when  the  morning  came,  arose  and  passed 
from  the  wigwam, 


270 


EVANGELINE. 


Fading  and  melting  away  and  dissolving  into  the 
sunshine, 

Till  she  beheld  him  no  more,  though  she  followed 

far  into  the  forest. 
Then,  in  those  sweet,  low  tones,  that  seemed 

like  a  weird  incantation, 
Told  she  the  tale  of  the  fair  Lilinau,  who  was 

wooed  by  a  phantom, 
That,  through  the  pines  o'er  her  father's  lodge, 

in  the  hush  of  the  twilight, 
Breathed  like  the  evening  wind,  and  whispered 

love  to  the  maiden, 
Till  she  followed  his  green  and  waving  plume 

through  the  forest, 
And  never  more"  returned,  nor  was  seen  again  by 

her  people. 

Silent  with  wonder  and  strange  surprise,  Evan- 
geline listened 

To  the  soft  flow  of  her  magical  words,  till  the 
region  around  her 


EVANGELINE. 


271 


Seemed  like  enchanted  ground,  and  her  swarthy 

guest  the  enchantress. 
Slowly  over  the  tops  of  the  Ozark  Mountains  the 

moon  rose, 

Lighting  the  .little  tent,  and  with  a  mysterious 
splendor 

Touching  the  sombre  leaves,  and  embracing  and 

filling  the  woodland. 
With  a  delicious  sound  the  brook  rushed  by,  and 

the  branches 

Swayed  and  sighed  overhead  in  scarcely  audible 
whispers. 

Filled  with  the  thoughts  of  love  was  Evangeline's 

heart,  but  a  secret, 
Subtile  sense  crept  in  of  pain  and  indefinite 

terror, 

As  the  cold,  poisonous  snake  creeps  into  the  nest 

of  the  swallow. 
It  was  no  earthly  fear.    A  breath  from  the  region 

6f  spirits 


272 


EVANGELINE. 


Seemed  to  float  in  the  air  oi'  night ;  and  she  felt 
for  a  moment 

That,  like  the  Indian  maid,  she,  too,  was  pur- 
suing a  phantom. 

And  with  this  thought  she  slept,  and  the  fear  and 
the  phantom  had  vanished. 

Early  upon  the  morrow  the  march  was  re- 
sumed ;  and  the  Shawnee 

Said,  as  they  journeyed  along, —  "  On  the  west- 
ern slope  of  these  mountains 

Dwells  in  his  little  village  the  Black  Robe  chief 
of  the  Mission. 

Much  he  teaches  the  people,  and  tells  them  of 
Mary  and  Jesus ; 

Loud  laugh  their  hearts  with  joy,  and  weep  with 
pain,  as  they  hear  him." 

Then,  with  a  sudden  and  secret  emotion,  Evan- 
geline answered,  — 


EVANGELINE. 


273 


"  Let  us  go  to  the  Mission,  for  there  good  tidings 
await  us  !  " 

Thither  they  turned  their  steeds  ;  and  behind  a 

spur  of  the  mountains, 
Just  as  the  sun  went  down,  they  heard  a  murmur 

of  voices, 

And  in  a  meadow  green  and  broad,  by  the  bank 
of  a  river, 

Saw  the  tents  of  the  Christians,  the  tents  of  the 

Jesuit  Mission. 
Under  a  towering  oak,  that  stood  in  the  midst  of 

the  village, 

Knelt  the  Black  Robe  chief  with  his  children. 

A  crucifix  fastened 
High  on  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  and  overshadowed 

by  grape-vines, 
Looked  with  its  agonized  face  on  the  multitude 

kneeling  beneath  it. 
This  was  their  rural  chapel.    Aloft,  through  the 

intricate  arches 


♦ 


274  EVANGELINE. 

Of  its  aerial  roof,  arose  the  chant  of  their  ves- 
pers, 

Mingling  its  notes  with  the  soft  susurrus  and  sighs 
of  the  branches. 

Silent,  with  heads  uncovered,  the  travellers,  near- 
er approaching, 

Knelt  on  the  swardea  floor,  and  joined  in  the 
evening  devotions. 

But  when  the  service  was  done,  and  the  benedic- 
tion had  fallen 

Forth  from  the  hands  of  the  priest,  like  seed  from 
the  hands  of  the  sower. 

Slowly  the  reverend  man  advanced  to  the  stran- 
gers, and  bade  them 

Welcome  ;  and  when  they  replied,  he  smiled  with 
benignant  expression, 

Hearing  the  homelike  sounds  of  his  mother- 
tongue  in  the  forest, 

And  with  words  of  kindness  conducted  them  into 
his  wigwam. 


EVANGELINE. 


275 


There  upon  mats  and  skins  they  reposed,  and  on 
cakes  of  the  maize-ear 

Feasted,  and  slaked  their  thirst  from  the  water- 
gourd  of  the  teacher. 

Soon  was  their  story  told  ;  and  the  priest  with 
solemnity  answered  :  — 

u  Not  six  suns  have  risen  and  set  since  Gabriel, 
seated 

On  this  mat  by  my  side,  where  now  the  maiden 
reposes, 

Told  me  this  same  sad  tale  ;  then  arose  and  con- 
tinued his  journey  !  " 

Soft  was  the  voice  of  the  priest,  and  he  spake 
with  an  accent  of  kindness  ; 

But  on  Evangeline's  heart  fell  his  words  as  in 
winter  the  snow-flakes 

Fall  into  some  lone  nest  from  which  the  birds 
have  departed. 

"Far  to  the  north  he  has  gone,"  continued  the 
priest  ;  "  but  in  autumn, 


276  EVANGELINE. 

When  the  chase  is  done,  will  return  again  to  the 
Mission." 

Then  Evangeline  said,  and  her  voice  was  meek 

and  submissive,  — 
"  Let  me  remain  with  thee,  for  my  soul  is  sad 

and  afflicted." 
So  seemed  it  wise  and  well  unto  all ;  and  betimes 

on  the  morrow, 
Mounting  his  Mexican  steed,  with  his  Indian 

guides  and  companions, 
Homeward  Basil  returned,  and  Evangeline  stayed 

at  the  Mission, 

Slowly,  slowly,   slowly  the  days  succeeded 

each  other,  — 
Days  and  weeks  and  months  ;  and  the  fields  of 

maize  that  were  springing 
Green  from  the  ground  when  a  stranger  sne  came, 

now  waving  above  her, 


EVANGELINE. 


277 


Lifted  their  slender  shafts,  with  leaves  interlacing, 
and  forming 

Cloisters  for  mendicant  crows  and  granaries  pil- 
laged by  squirrels. 

Then  in  the  golden  weather  the  maize  was  husked, 
and  the  maidens 

Blushed  at  each  blood-red  ear,  for  that  betokened 
a  lover, 

But  at  the  crooked  laughed,  and  called  it  a  thief 

in  the  corn-field. 
Even  the  blood-red  ear  to  Evangeline  brought 

not  her  lover. 
"  Patience  !  "   the  priest  would  say;    "  have 

faith,  and  thy  prayer  will  be  answered  ! 
Look  at  this  delicate  plant  that  lifts  its  head  from 

the  meadow, 
See  how  its  leaves  all  point  to  the  north,  as  true 

as  the  magnet  ; 
It  is  the  compass-flower,  that  the  finger  of  God 

has  suspended 


278 


EVANGELINE. 


Here  on  its  fragile  stalk,  to  direct  the  traveller's 

journey- 
Over  the  sea-like,  pathless,  limitless  waste  of 

the  desert. 

Such  in  the  soul  of  man  is  faith.    The  blossoms 
of  passion, 

Gay  and  luxuriant  flowers,  are  brighter  and  fuller 

of  fragrance, 
But  they  beguile  us,  and  lead  us  astray,  and  their 

odor  is  deadly. 
Only  this  humble  plant  can  guide  us  here,  and 

hereafter 

Crown  us  with  asphodel  flowers,  that  are  wet 
with  the  dews  of  nepenthe." 

So  came  the  autumn,  and  passed,  and  the 
winter,  — yet  Gabriel  came  not ; 
Blossomed  the  opening  spring,  and  the  notes  of 
the  robin  and  blue-bird 


EVANGELINE. 


279 


Sounded  sweet  upon  wold  and  in  wood,  yet 

Gabriel  came  not. 
But  on  the  breath  of  the  summer  winds  a  rumor 

was  wafted 

Sweeter  than  song  of  bird,  or  hue  or  odor  of 
blossom. 

Far  to  the  north  and  east,  it  said,  in  the  Michigan 
forests, 

Gabriel  had  his  lodge  by  the  banks  of.  the  Sagi- 
naw river. 

And,  with  returning  guides,  that  sought  the  lakes 

of  St.  Lawrence, 
Saying  a  sad  farewell,  Evangeline  went  from  the 

Mission. 

When  over  weary  ways,  by  long'  and  perilous 
marches, 

She  had  attained  at  length  the  depths  of  the 

Michigan  forests, 
Found  she  the  hunter's  lodge  deserted  and  fallen 

to  ruin! 


280 


EVANGELINE. 


Thus  did  the  long  sad  years  glide  on,  and  in 
seasons  and  places 
Divers  and  distant  far  was  seen  the  wandering 
maiden  ;  — 

Now  in  the  tents  of  grace  of  the  meek  Moravian 
Missions, 

Now  in  the  noisy  camps  and  the  battle-fields  of 
the  army, 

Now  in  secluded  hamlets,  in  towns  and  populous 
cities. 

Like  a  phantom  she  came,  and  passed  away  un- 

remembered. 
Fair  was  she  and  young,  when  in  hope  began  the 

long  journey  ; 
Faded  was  she  and  old,  when  in  disappointment 

it  ended. 

Each  succeeding  year  stole  something  away  from 
her  beauty, 

Leaving  behind  it,  broader  and  deeper,  the  gloom 
and  the  shadow. 


EVANGELINE. 


281 


Then  there  appeared  and  spread  faint  streaks  of 

gray  o'er  her  forehead, 
Dawn  of  another  life,  that  broke  o'er  her  earthly 

horizon, 

As  in  the  eastern  sky  the  first  faint  streaks  of  the 
morning. 


V. 


In  that  delightful  land  which  is  washed  by  the 

Delaware's  waters, 
Guarding  in  sylvan  shades  the  name  of  Penn  the 

apostle, 

Stands  on  the  banks  of  its  beautiful  stream  the 

city  he  founded. 
There  all  the  air  is  balm,  and  the  peach  is  the 

emblem  of  beauty, 
And  the  streets  still  reecho  the  names  of  the 

trees  of  the  forest, 
As  if  they  fain  would  appease  the  Dryads  whose 

haunts  they  molested. 


284 


EVANGELINE. 


There  from  the  troubled  sea  had  Evangeline 

landed,  an  exile, 
Finding  among  the  children  of  Penn  a  home  and 

a  country. 

There  old  Rene  Leblanc  had  died  ;  and  when  he 
departed, 

Saw  at  his  side  only  one  of  all  his  hundred 
descendants. 

Something  at  least  there  was  in  the  friendly 
streets  of  the  city, 

Something  that  spake  to  her  heart,  and  made  her 
no  longer  a  stranger  ; 

And  her  ear  was  pleased  with  the  Thee  and 
Thou  of  the  Quakers, 

For  it  recalled  the  past,  the  old  Acadian  coun- 
try, 

Where  all  men  wrere  equal,  and  all  were  brothers 
and  sisters. 

So,  when  the  fruitless  search,  the  disappointed 
endeavour, 


EVANGELINE. 


285 


Ended,  to  recommence  no  more  upon  earth,  un- 
complaining, 

Thither,  as  leaves  to  the  light,  were  turned  her 

thoughts  and  her  footsteps. 
As  from  a  mountain's  top  the  rainy  mists  of  the 

morning 

Roll  away,  and  afar  we  behold  the  landscape 
below  us, 

Sun-illumined,  with  shining  rivers  and  cities  and 
hamlets, 

So  fell  the  mists  from  her  mind,  and  she  saw  the 

world  far  below  her, 
Dark  no  longer,  but  all  illumined  with  love  ;  and 

the  pathway 

Which  she  had  climbed  so  far,  lying  smooth  and 

fair  in  the  distance. 
Gabriel  was  not  forgotten.    Within  her  heart  was 

his  image, 

Clothed  in  the  beauty  of  love  and  youth,  as  last 
she  beheld  him, 


286  EVANGELINE. 

Only  more  beautiful  made  by  his  deathlike  si- 
lence and  absence. 

Into  her  thoughts  of  him  time  entered  not,  for  it 
was  not. 

Over  him  years  had  no  power  ;  he  was  not 

changed,  but  transfigured  ; 
He  had  become  to  her  heart  as  one  who  is  dead, 

and  not  absent  ; 
Patience  and  abnegation  of  self,  and  devotion  to 

others, 

This  was  the  lesson  a  life  of  trial  and  sorrow  had 
taught  her. 

So  was  her  love  diffused,  but,  like  to  some 

odorous  spices, 
Suffered  no  waste  nor  loss,  though  filling  the  air 

with  aroma. 

Other  hope  had  she  none,  nor  wish  in  life,  but  to 
follow 

Meekly,  with  reverent  steps,  the  sacred  feet  of 
her  Saviour. 


EVANGELINE. 


287 


Thus  many  years  she  lived  as  a  Sister  of  Mercy ; 
frequenting 

Lonely  and  wretched  roofs  in  the  crowded  lanes 
of  the  city, 

Where  distress  and  want  concealed  themselves 

from  the  sunlight, 
Where  disease  and  sorrow  in  garrets  languished 

neglected. 

Night  after  night,  when  the  world  was  asleep,  as 

the  watchman  repeated 
Loud,  through  the  gusty  streets,  that  all  was  well 

in  the  city, 

High  at  some  lonely  window  he  saw  the  light  of 
her  taper. 

Day  after  day,  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn,  as  slow 

through  the  suburbs 
Plodded  the  German  farmer,  with  flowers  and 

fruits  for  the  market, 
Met  he  that  meek,  pale  face,  returning  home 

from  its  watchings. 


288  EVANGELINE. 

Then  it  came  to  pass  that  a  pestilence  fell  on 
the  city, 

Presaged  by  wondrous   signs,  and   mostly  by 

flocks  of  wild  pigeons, 
Darkening  the  sun  in  their  flight,  with  naught  m 

their  craws  but  an  acorn. « 
And,  as  the  tides  of  the  sea  arise  in  the  month 

of  September, 
Flooding  some  silver  stream,  till  it  spreads  to  a 

lake  in  the  meadow, 
So  death  flooded  life,  and,  o'erflowing  its  natural 

margin, 

Spread  to  a  brackish  lake,  the  silver  stream  of 
existence. 

Wealth  had  no  power  to  bribe,  nor  beauty  to 

charm,  the  oppressor ; 
But  all  perished  alike  beneath  the  scourge  of  his 

anger  ;  — 

Only,  alas  !  the  poor,  who  had  neither  friends 
nor  attendants, 


EVANGELINE. 


289 


Crept  away  to  die  in  the  almshouse,  home  of  the 
homeless. 

Then  in  the  suburbs  it  stood,  in  the  midst  of 

meadows  and  woodlands  ;  — 
Now  the  city  surrounds  it  ;  but  still,  with  its 

gateway  and  wicket 
Meek,  in  the  midst  of  splendor,  its  humble  walls 

seem  to  echo 
Softly  the  words  of  the  Lord  :  —  "  The  poor  ye 

always  have  with  you." 
Thither,  by  night  and  by  day,  came  the  Sister 

of  Mercy.    The  dying 
Looked  up  into  her  face,  and  thought,  indeed,  to 

behold  there 

Gleams  of  celestial  light  encircle  her  forehead 

with  splendor, 
Such  as  the  artist  paints  o'er  the  brows  of  saints 

and  apostles, 
Or  such  as  hangs  by  night  o'er  a  city  seen  at  a 

distance. 


290 


EVANGELIN  E. 


Unto  their  eyes  it  seemed  the  lamps  of  the  city 
celestial, 

Into  whose  shining  gates   ere  long  their  spirits 
would  enter. 

Thus,  on  a  Sabbath  morn,  through  the  streets, 

deserted  and  silent. 
Wending  her  quiet  way,  she  entered  the  door  of 

the  almshouse. 
Sweet  on  the  summer  air  was  the  odor  of  flowers 

in  the  garden  ; 
And  she  paused  on  her  way  to  gather  the  fairest 

among  them, 
That  the  dying  once  more  might  rejoice  in  their 

fragrance  and  beauty. 
Then,  as  she  mounted  the  stairs  to  the  corridors, 

cooled  by  the  east  wind, 
Distant  and  soft  on  her  ear  fell  the  chimes  from 

the  belfry  of  Christ  Church, 


EVANGELINE. 


291 


While,  intermingled  with  these,  across  the  mead- 
ows were  wafted 

Sounds  of  psalms,  that  were  sung  by  the  Swedes 
in  their  church  at  Wicaco. 

Soft  as  descending  wings  fell  the  calm  of  the 
hour  on  her  spirit  ; 

Something  within  her  said,  —  "At  length  thy 
trials  are  ended  "  ; 

And,  with  light  in  her  looks,  she  entered  the 
chambers  of  sickness. 

Noiselessly  moved  about  the  assiduous,  careful 
attendants, 

Moistening  the  feverish  lip,  and  the  aching  brow, 
and  in  silence 

Closing  the  sightless  eyes  of  the  dead,  and  con- 
cealing their  faces, 

Where  on  their  pallets  they  lay,  like  drifts  of 
snow  by  the  road-side. 

Many  a  languid  head,  upraised  as  Evangeline 
entered, 


292  EVANGELINE. 

Turned  on  its  pillow  of  pain  to  gaze  while  she 

passed,  for  her  presence 
Fell  on  their  hearts  like  a  ray  of  the  sun  on  the 

walls  of  a  prison. 
And,  as  she  looked  around,  she  saw  how  Death, 

the  consoler, 

,  Laying  his  hand  upon  many  a  heart,  had  healed 
it  for  ever. 

Many  familiar  forms  had  disappeared  in  the  night- 
time ; 

Vacant  their  places  were,  or  filled  already  by 
strangers. 

Suddenly,  as  if  arrested  by  fear  or  a  feeling 
of  wonder, 

Still  she  stood,  with  her  colorless  lips  apart, 
while  a  shudder 

Ran  through  her  frame,  and,  forgotten,  the  flow- 
erets dropped  from  her  fingers, 


EVANGELINE. 


293 


And  from  her  eyes  and  cheeks  the  light  and 

bloom  of  the  morning. 
Then  there  escaped  from  her  lips  a  cry  of  such 

terrible  anguish, 
That  the  dying  heard  it,  and  started  up  from  their 

pillows. 

On  the  pallet  before  her  was  stretched  the  form 

of  an  old  man. 
Long,  and  thin,  and  gray  were  the  locks  that 

shaded  his  temples  ; 
But,  as  he  lay  in  the  morning  light,  his  face  for 

a  moment 

Seemed  to  assume  once  more  the  forms  of  its 

earlier  manhood  ; 
So  are  wont  to  be  changed  the  faces  of  those 

who  are  dying. 
Hot  and  red  on  his  lips  still  burned  the  flush  of 

the  fever, 

As  if  life,  like  the  Hebrew,  with  blood  had 
besprinkled  its  portals, 


294  EVANGELINE. 

That  the  Angel  of  Death  might  see  the  sign, 

and  pass  over. 
Motionless,  senseless,  dying,  he  lay,  and  his  spirit 

exhausted 

Seemed   to   be   sinking  down  through  infinite 

depths  in  the  darkness, 
Darkness  of  slumber  and  death,  for  ever  sinking 

and  sinking. 

Then  through  those  realms  of  shade,  in  multiplied 

reverberations, 
Heard  he  that  cry  of  pain,  and  through  the  hush 

that  succeeded 
Whispered  a  gentle  voice,  in  accents  tender  and 

saint-like, 

"  Gabriel  !   O  my  beloved  !  "   and  died  away 
into  silence. 

Then  he  beheld,  in  a  dream,  once  more  the 

home  of  his  childhood  ; 
Green  Acadian   meadows,   with  sylvan  rivers 

among  them, 


EVANGELINE. 


295 


Village,  and  mountain,    and    woodlands ;  and, 

walking  under  their  shadow, 
As  in  the  days  of  her  youth,  Evangeline  rose  in 

his  vision. 

Tears  came  into  his  eyes ;  and  as  slowly  he 
lifted  his  eyelids, 

Vanished  the  vision  away,  but  Evangeline  knelt 
by  his  bedside. 

Vainly  he  strove  to  whisper  her  name,  for  the 
accents  unuttered 

Died  on  his  lips,  and  their  motion  revealed  what 
his  tongue  would  have  spoken. 

Vainly  he  strove  to  rise  ;  and  Evangeline,  kneel- 
ing beside  him, 

Kissed  his  dying  lips,  and  laid  his  head  on  her 
bosom. 

Sweet  was  the  light  of  his  eyes  ;  but  it  suddenly 

sank  into  darkness, 
As  when  a  lamp  is  blown  out  by  a  gust  of  wind 

at  a  casement. 


296  EVANGELINE. 

All  was  ended  now,  the  hope,  and  the  fear, 
and  the  sorrow, 
All  the  aching  of  heart,  the  restless,  unsatisfied 
longing, 

All  the  dull,  deep  pain,  and  constant  anguish  of 
patience  !  . 

And,  as  she  pressed  once  more  the  lifeless  head 

to  her  bosom, 
Meekly  she  bowed  her  own,   and  murmured, 

"  Father,  I  thank  thee  !  " 


Still  stands  the  forest  primeval  ;  but  far  away 

from  its  shadow, 
Side  by  side,  in  their  nameless  graves,  the  lovers 

are  sleeping. 

Under  the  humble  walls  of  the  little  Catholic 

church-yard, 
In  the  heart  of  the  city,  they  lie,  unknown  and 

unnoticed. 

Daily  the  tides  of  life  go  ebbing  and  flowing 

beside  them, 
Thousands  of  throbbing  hearts,  where  theirs  are 

at  rest  and  for  ever, 


298 


EVANGELINE. 


Thousands  of  aching  brains,  where  theirs  no 
longer  are  busy, 

Thousands  of  toiling  hands,  where  theirs  have 
ceased  from  their  labors, 

Thousands  of  weary  feet,  where  theirs  have  com- 
pleted their  journey  ! 

Still  stands  the  forest  primeval  ;  but  under  the 
shade  of  its  branches 
Dwells  another  race,  with  other  customs  and 
language. 

Only  along  the  shore  of  the  mournful  and  misty 
Atlantic 

Linger  a  few  Acadian  peasants,  whose  fathers 
from  exile 

Wandered  back  to  their  native  land  to  die  in  its 
bosom. 

In  the  fisherman's  cot  the  wheel  and  the  loom  are 
still  busy  ; 


EVANGELINE. 


299 


Maidens  still  wear  their  Norman  caps  and  their 

kirtles  of  homespun, 
And  by  the  evening  fire   repeat'  Evangeline's 

story, 

While  from  its  rocky  caverns  the  deep-voiced, 

neighbouring  ocean 
Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the 

wail  of  the  forest. 


THE  SEASIDE  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 


1850. 


303 


DEDICATION. 


As  one  who,  walking  in  the  twilight  gloom, 
Hears  round  about  him  voices  as  it  darkens, 

And  seeing  not  the  forms  from  which  they  come, 
Pauses  from  time  to  time,  and  turns  and  heark- 
ens ; 

So  walking  here  in  twilight,  O  my  friends  ! 

I  hear  your  voices,  softened  by  the  distance, 
And  pause,  and  turn  to  listen,  as  each  sends 

His  words  of  friendship,  comfort,  and  assistance. 


304 


DEDICATION. 


If  any  thought  of  mine,  or  sung  or  told, 
Has  ever  given  delight  or  consolation, 

Ye  have  repaid  me  back  a  thousand  fold, 
By  every  friendly  sign  and  salutation. 

Thanks  for  the  sympathies  that  ye  have  shown  ! 

Thanks  for  each  kindly  word,  each  silent  token. 
That  teaches  me,  when  seeming  most  alone, 

Friends  are  around  us,  though  no  word  be 
spoken. 

Kind  messages,  that  pass  from  land  to  land  ; 

Kind  letters,  that  betray  Jie  heart's  deep  history, 
In  which  we  feel  the  pressure  of  a  hand,  — 

One  touch  of  fire,  —  and  all  the  rest  is  mystery  ! 

The  pleasant  books,  that  silently  among 

Our  household  treasures  take  familiar  places, 

And  are  to  us  as  if  a  living  tongue 

Spake  from  the  printed  leaves  or  pictured  faces } 


DEDICATION. 


305 


Perhaps  on  earth  I  never  shall  behold, 

With  eye  of  sense,  your  outward  form  and 
semblance  ; 

Therefore  to  me  ye  never  will  grow  old, 
But  live  for  ever  young  in  my  remembrance. 

Never  grow  old,  nor  change,  nor  pass  away  ! 

Your  gentle  voices  will  flow  on  for  ever, 
When  life  grows  bare  and  tarnished  with  decay, 

As  through  a  leafless  landscape  flows  a  river. 

Not  chance  of  birth  or  place  has  made  us  friends, 
Being  oftentimes  of  different  tongues  and  nations, 

But  the  endeavour  for  the  selfsame  ends, 

With  the  same  hopes,  and  fears,  and  aspirations. 

Therefore  I  hope  to  join  your  seaside  walk, 
Saddened,  and  mostly  silent,  with  emotion  ; 

Not  interrupting  with  intrusive  talk 

The  grand,  majestic  symphonies  of  ocean. 

20 


306 


DEDICATION. 


Therefore  I  hope,  as  no  unwelcome  guest, 

At  your  warm  fireside,  when  the  lamps  are 
lighted, 

To  have  my  place  reserved  among  the  rest, 
Nor  stand  as  one  unsought  and  uninvited  1 


BY  THE  SEASIDE. 


309 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP. 


*c  Build  me  straight,  O  worthy  Master  ! 

Staunch  and  strong,  a  goodly  vessel, 
That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  !  " 

The  merchant's  word 

Delighted  the  Master  heard  ; 

For  his  heart  was  in  his  work,  and  the  heart 

Giveth  grace  unto  every  Art. 


310 


BY    THE  SEASIDE. 


A  quiet  smile  played  round  his  lips, 
As  the  eddies  and  dimples  of  the  tide 
Play  round  the  bows  of  ships, 
That  steadily  at  anchor  ride. 
And  with  a  voice  that  was  full  of  glee, 
He  answered,  "Ere  long  we  will  launch 
A  vessel  as  goodly,  and  strong,  and  staunch, 
As  ever  weathered  a  wintry  sea  !  " 

And  first  with  nicest  skill  and  art, 
Perfect  and  finished  in  every  part, 
A  little  model  the  Master  wrought, 
Which  should  be  to  the  larger  plan 
What  the  child  is  to  the  man, 
Its  counterpart  in  miniature  ;  * 
That  with  a  hand  more  swift  and  sure 
The  greater  labor  might  be  brought 
To  answer  to  his  inward  thought. 
And  as  he  labored,  his  mind  ran  o'er 


THE    BUILDING  OF    THE   SHIP.  31 

The  various  ships  that  were  built  of  yore. 
And  above  them  all,  and  strangest  of  all 
Towered  the  Great  Harry,  crank  and  tall, 
Whose  picture  was  hanging  on  the  wall, 
With  bows  and  stern  raised  high  in  air, 
And  balconies  hanging  here  and  there, 
And  signal  lanterns  and  flags  afloat, 
And  eight  round  towers,  like  those  that  frown 
From  some  old  castle,  looking  down 
Upon  the  drawbridge  and  the  moat. 
And  he  said  with  a  smile,  u  Our  ship,  I  wis, 
Shall  be  of  another  form  than  this  !  " 

It  was  of  another  form,  indeed  ; 

Built  for  freight,  and  yet  for  speed, 

A  beautiful  and  gallant  craft ; 

Broad  in  the  beam,  that  the  stress  of  the  blast, 

Pressing  down  upon  sail  and  mast, 

Might  not  the  sharp  bows  overwhelm  ; 


312 


BY    THE  SEASIDE. 


Broad  in  the  beam,  but  sloping  aft 
With  graceful  curve  and  slow  degrees. 
That  she  might  be  docile  to  the  helm, 
And  that  the  currents  of  parted  seas, 
Closing  behind,  with  mighty  force, 
Might  aid  and  not  impede  her  course. 

In  the  ship-yard  stood  the  Master, 
With  the  model  of  the  vessel, 

That  should  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle 

Covering  many  a  rood  of  ground, 
Lay  the  timber  piled  around  ; 
Timber  of  chestnut,  and  elm,  and  oak, 
And  scattered  here  and  there,  with  these 
The  knarred  and  crooked  cedar  knees  ; 
Brought  from  regions  far  away, 
From  Pascagoula's  sunny  bay, 


THE    BUILDING    OF    THE  SHIP. 

And  the  banks  of  the  roaring  Roanoke  ! 

Ah  !  what  a  wondrous  thing  it  is 

To  note  how  many  wheels  of  toil 

One  thought,  one  word,  can  set  in  motion 

There 's  not  a  ship  that  sails  the  ocean, 

But  every  climate,  every  soil, 

Must  bring  its  tribute,  great  or  small, 

And  help  to  build  the  wooden  wall ! 

The  sun  was  rising  o'er  tha  sea, 
And  long  the  level  shadows  lay, 
As  if  they,  too,  the  beams  would  be 
Of  some  great,  airy  argosy, 
Framed  and  launched  in  a  single  day. 
That  silent  architect,  the  sun, 
Had  hewn  and  laid  them  every  one, 
Ere  the  work  of  man  was  yet  begun. 
Beside  the  Master,  when  he  spoke, 
A  youth,  against  an  anchor  leaning, 


314 


BY    THE  SEASIDE 


Listened,  to  catch  his  slightest  meaning. 
Only  the  long  waves,  as  they  broke 
In  ripples  on  the  pebbly  beach, 
Interrupted  the  old  man's  speech. 

Beautiful  they  were,  in  sooth, 

The  old  man  and  the  fiery  youth  ! 

The  old  man,  in  whose  busy  brain 

Many  a  ship  that  sailed  the  main 

Was  modelled  o'er  and  o'er  again  ;  — 

The  fiery  youth,  who  was  to  be 

The  heir  of  his  dexterity, 

The  heir  of  his  house,  and  his  daughter's  hand, 

When  he  had  built  and  launched  from  land 

What  the  elder  head  had  planned. 

"  Thus,"  said  he,  "  will  we  build  this  ship  ! 
Lay  square  the  blocks  upon  the  slip, 
And  follow  well  this  plan  of  mine. 


THE    BUILDING    OF    THE    SHIP.  315 


Choose  the  timbers  with  greatest  care  ; 

Of  all  that  is  unsound  beware  ; 

For  only  what  is  sound  and  strong 

To  this  vessel  shall  belong. 

Cedar  of  Maine  and  Georgia  pine 

Here  together  shall  combine. 

A  goodly  frame,  and  a  goodly  fame, 

And  the  Union  be  her  name  ! 

For  the  day  that  gives  her  to  the  sea 

Shall  give  my  daughter  unto  thee  !  " 

The  Master's  word 

Enraptured  the  young  man  heard  ; 

And  as  he  turned  his  face  aside, 

With  a  look  of  joy  and  a  thrill  of  pride, 

Standing  before 

Her  father's  door, 

He  saw  the  form  of  his  promised  bride. 
The  sun  shone  on  her  golden  hair, 


316 


BY    THE  SEASIDE. 


And  her  cheek  was  glowing  fresh  and  fair, 
With  the  breath  of  morn  and  the  soft  sea  air. 
Like  a  beauteous  barge  was  she, 
Still  at  rest  on  the  sandy  beach, 
Just  beyond  the  billow's  reach  ; 
But  he 

Was  the  restless,  seething,  stormy  sea  ! 

Ah,  how  skilful  grows  the  hand 
That  obeyeth  Love's  command  ! 
It  is  the  heart,  and  not  the  brain, 
That  to  the  highest  doth  attain, 
And  he  who  followeth  Love's  behest 
Far  exceedeth  all  the  rest  ! 

Thus  with  the  rising  of  the  sun 

Was  the  noble  task  begun, 

And  soon  throughout  the  ship-yard's  bounds 

Were  heard  the  intermingled  sounds 


THE   BUILDING   OF   THE  SHIP. 


Of  axes  and  of  mallets,  plied 
With  vigorous  arms  on  every  side  ; 
Plied  so  deftly  and  so  well, 
That,  ere  the  shadows  of  evening  fell, 
The  keel  of  oak  for  a  noble  ship, 
Scarfed  and  bolted,  straight  and  strong, 
Was  lying  ready,  and  stretched  along 
The  blocks,  well  placed  upon  the  slip. 
Happy,  thrice  happy,  every  one 
Who  sees  his  labor  well  begun, 
And  not  perplexed  and  multiplied, 
By  idly  waiting  for  time  and  tide  ! 

And  when  the  hot,  long  day  was  o'er, 
The  young  man  at  the  Master's  door 
Sat  with  the  maiden  calm  and  still. 
And  within  the  porch,  a  little  more 
Removed  beyond  the  evening  chill, 
The  father  sat,  and  told  them  tales 


318 


BY    THE  SEASIDE. 


Of  wrecks  in  the  great  September  gales, 
Of  pirates  upon  the  Spanish  Main, 
And  ships  that  never  came  back  again, 
The  chance  and  change  of  a  sailor's  life, 
Want  and  plenty,  rest  and  strife, 
His  roving  fancy,  like  the  wind, 
That  nothing  can  stay  and  nothing  can  bind, 
And  the  magic  charm  of  foreign  lands, 
With  shadows  of  palms,  and  shining  sands, 
Where  the  tumbling  surf, 
O'er  the  coral  reefs  of  Madagascar, 
Washes  the  feet  of  the  swarthy  Lascar, 
As  he  lies  alone  and  asleep  on  the  turf. 
And  the  trembling  maiden  held  her  breath 
At  the  tales  of  that  awful,  pitiless  sea, 
With  all  its  terror  and  mystery, 
The  dim,  dark  sea,  so  like  unto  Death, 
That  divides  and  yet  unites  mankind  ! 
And  whenever  the  old  man  paused,  a  gleam 


THE    BUILDING    OF    THE    SHIP.  319 

From  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  would  awhile  illume 
The  silent  group  in  the  twilight  gloom, 
And  thoughtful  faces,  as  in  a  dream  ; 
And  for  a  moment  one  might  mark 
What  had  been  hidden  by  the  dark, 
That  the  head  of  the  maiden  lay  at  rest. 
Tenderly,  on  the  young  man's  oreast  ! 

Day  by  day  the  vessel  grew, 
With  timbers  fashioned  strong  and  true, 
Stemson  and  keelson  and  sternson-knee, 
Till,  framed  with  perfect  symmetry, 
A  skeleton  ship  rose  up  to  view  ! 
And  around  the  bows  and  along  the  side 
The  heavy  hammers  and  mallets  plied, 
Till  after  many  a  week,  at  length, 
Wonderful  for  form  and  strength, 
Sublime  in  its  enormous  bulk, 
Loomed  aloft  the  shadowy  hulk  ! 


320 


BY    THE  SEASIDE. 


And  around  it  columns  of  smoke,  upwreathing, 
Rose  from  the  boiling,  bubbling,  seething 
Caldron,  that  glowed, 
And  overflowed 

With  the  black  tar,  heated*  for  the  sheathing. 

And  amid  the  clamors 

Of  clattering  hammers, 

He  who  listened  heard  now  and  then 

The  song  of  the  Master  and  his  men  :  — 

"  Build  me  straight,  O  worthy  Master, 
Staunch  and  strong,  a  goodly  vessel, 

That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrrestle  !  " 

With  oaken  brace  and  copper  band, 
Lay  the  rudder  on  the  sand, 
That,  like  a  thought,  should  have  control 
Over  the  movement  of  the  whole  ; 


THE    BUILDING    OF    THE    SHIP.  321 

And  near  it  the  anchor,  whose  giant,  hand 
Would  reach  down  and  grapple  with  the  land, 
And  immovable  and  fast 

Hold  the  great  ship  against  the  bellowing  blast  f 

And  at  the  bows  an  image  stood, 

By  a  cunning  artist  carved  in  wood, 

With  robes  of  white,  that  far  behind 

Seemed  to  be  fluttering  in  the  wind. 

It  was  not  shaped  in  a  classic  mould, 

Not  like  a  Nymph  or  Goddess  of  old, 

Or  Naiad  rising  from  the  water, 

But  modelled  from  the  Master's  daughter  ! 

On  many  a  dreary  and  misty  night, 

'T  will  be  seen  by  the  rays  of  the  signal  light, 

Speeding  along  through  the  rain  and  the  dark, 

Like  a  ghost  in  its  snow-white  sark. 

The  pilot  of  some  phantom  bark, 

Guiding  the  vessel,  in  its  flight, 

By  a  path  none  other  knows  aright  ! 
21 


322 


EY    THE  SEASIDE. 


Behold,  at  last, 
Each  tall  and  tapering  mast 
Is  swung  into  its  place  ; 
Shrouds  and  stays 
Holding  it  firm  and  fast ! 

Long  ago, 

In  the  deer-haunted  forests  of  Maine, 
When  upon  mountain  and  plain 
Lay  the  snow, 

They  fell,  —  those  lordly  pines  ! 

Those  grand,  majestic  pines  ! 

'Mid  shouts  and  cheers 

The  jaded  steers, 

Panting  beneath  the  goad, 

Dragged  down  the  weary,  winding  road 

Those  captive  kings  so  straight  and  tall, 

To  be  shorn  of  their  streaming  hair, 

And,  naked  and  bare, 


THE    BUILDING    OF    THE  SHIP. 


323 


To  feel  the  stress  and  the  strain 
Of  the  wind  and  the  reeling  main, 
Whose  roar 

Would  remind  them  for  evermore 

Of  their  native  forests  they  should  not  see  again. 

And  everywhere 

The  slender,  graceful  spars 

Poise  aloft  in  the  air, 

And  at  the  mast  head, 

White,  blue,  and  red, 

A  flag  unrolls  the  stripes  and  stars. 

Ah  !  when  the  wanderer,  lonely,  friendless, 

In  foreign  harbours  shall  behold 

That  flag  unrolled, 

'T  will  be  as  a  friendly  hand 

Stretched  out  from  his  native  land, 

Filling  his  heart  with  memories  sweet  and  endless  ! 


324 


BY    THE  SEASIDE. 


All  is  finished  !  and  at  length 

Has  come  the  bridal  day 

Of  beauty  and  of  strength. 

To-day  the  vessel  shall  be  launched  ! 

With  fleecy  clouds  the  sky  is  blanched, 

And  o?er  the  bay, 

Slowly,  in  all  his  splendors  dight, 

The  great  sun  rises  to  behold  the  sight, 

The  ocean  old, 
Centuries  old, 

Strong  as  youth,  and  as  uncontrolled, 

Paces  restless  to  and  fro, 

Up  and  down  the  sands  of  gold. 

His  beating  heart  is  not  at  rest ; 

And  far  and  wide, 

With  ceaseless  flow, 

His  beard  of  snow 

Heaves  with  the  heaving  of  his  breast. 


THE   BUILDING    OF   THE  SHIP.  325 

He  waits  impatient  for  his  bride. 

There  she  stands, 

With  her  foot  upon  the  sands, 

Decked  with  flags  and  streamers  gay, 

In  honor  of  her  marriage  day, 

Her  snow-white  signals  fluttering,  blending, 

Round  her  like  a- veil  descending, 

Ready  to  be 

The  bride  of  the  gray,  old  sea. 

On  the  deck  another  bride 
Is  standing  by  her  lover's  side. 
Shadows  from  the  flags  and  shrouds, 
Like  the  shadows  cast  by  clouds, 
Broken  by  many  a  sunny  fleck. 
Fall  around  them  on  the  deck. 

The  prayer  is  said, 
The  service  read, 


326 


BY    THE  SEASIDE. 


The  joyous  bridegroom  bows  his  head 
And  in  tears  the  good  old  Master 
Shakes  the  brown  hand  of  his  son, 
Kisses  his  daughter's  glowing  cheek 
In  silence,  for  he  cannot  speak, 
And  ever  faster 

Down  his  own  the  tears  begin  to  run 

The  worthy  pastor  — 

The  shepherd  of  that  wandering  flock, 

That  has  the  ocean  for  its  wold, 

That  has  the  vessel  for  its  fold, 

Leaping  ever  from  rock  to  rock  — 

Spake,  with  accents  mild  and  clear. 

Words  of  warning,  words  of  cheer, 

But  tedious  to  the  bridegroom's  ear. 

He  knew  the  chart 

Of  the  sailor's  heart, 

All  its  pleasures  and  its  griefs, 

All  its  shallows  and  rocky  reefs, 


THE   BUILDING    OF    THE    SHIP.  327 

All  those  secret  currents,  that  flow 
With  such  resistless  undertow, 
And  lift  and  drift,  with  terrible  force, 
The  will  from  its  moorings  and  its  course. 
Therefore  he  spake,  and  thus  said  he  *  — 

"  Like  unto  ships  far  off  at  sea. 

Outward  or  homeward  bound,  are  we. 

Before,  behind,  and  all  around, 

Floats  and  swings  the  horizon's  bound, 

Seems  at  its  distant  rim  to  rise 

And  climb  the  crystal  wall  of  the  skies. 

And  then  again  to  turn  and  sink, 

x\s  if  we  could  slide  from  its  outer  brink. 

Ah  !  it  is  not  the  sea, 

It  is  not  the  sea  that  sinks  and  shelves, 

But  ourselves 

That  rock  and  rise 

With  endless  and  uneasy  motion, 


328 


BY    THE  SEASIDE. 


Now  touching  the  very  skies, 

Now  sinking  into  the  depths  of  ocean. 

Ah  !  if  our  souls  but  poise  and  swing 

Like  the  compass  in  its  brazen  ring, 

Ever  level  and  ever  true 

To  the  toil  and  the  task  we  have  to  do, 

We  shall  sail  securely,  and  safely  reach 

The  Fortunate  Isles,  on  whose  shining  beach 

The  sights  we  see,  and  the  sounds  we  hear, 

Will  be  those  of  joy  and  not  of  fear  !  " 

Then  the  Master, 

With  a  gesture  of  command, 

Waved  his  hand  ; 

And  at  the  word, 

Loud  and  sudden  there  was-  heard, 

All  around  them  and  below, 

The  sound  of  hammers,  blow  on  blow, 


THE    BUILDING    OF    THE  SHIP. 

Knocking  away  the  shores  and  spurs. 
And  see  !  she  stirs  ! 

She  starts,  —  she  moves,  —  she  seems  to 

The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel, 

And,  spurning  with  her  foot  the  ground, 

With  one  exulting,  joyous  bound, 

She  leaps  into  the  ocean's  arms  ! 

And  lo  !  from  the  assembled  crowd 
There  rose  a  shout,  prolonged  and  loud, 
That  to  the  ocean  seemed  to  say,  — 
"  Take  her,  O  bridegroom,  old  and  gray. 
Take  her  to  thy  protecting  arms, 
With  all  her  youth  and  all  her  charms  !  ' 

How  beautiful  she  is  !    How  fair 
She  lies  within  those  arms,  that  press 
Her  form  with  many  a  soft  caress 
Of  tenderness  and  watchful  care  ! 


330 


BY   THE  SEASIDE. 


Sail  forth  into  the  sea,  O  ship  ! 
Through  wind  and  wave,  right  onward  steer  1 
The  moistened  eye,  the  trembling  lip, 
Are  not  the  signs  of  doubt  or  fear. 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea  of  life, 
O  gentle,  loving,  trusting  wife, 
And  safe  from  all  adversity 
Upon  the  bosom  of  that  sea 
Thy  comings  and  thy  goings  be  ! 
For  gentleness  and  love  and  trust 
Prevail  o'er  angry  wave  and  gust ; 
And  in  the  wreck  of  noble  lives 
Something  immortal  still  survives  ! 

Thou,  too,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State  ! 
Sail  on,  O  Union,  strong  and  great ! 
Humanity  with  all  its  fears, 
With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 
Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate  ! 


THE   BUILDING    OF   THE    SHIP.  331 

We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 
What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel, 
Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 
What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat, 
In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat 
Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope  ! 
Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock, 
JT  is  of  the  wave  and  not  the  rock  ; 
'T  is  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 
And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale  ! 
In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest's  roar, 
In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 
Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea  ! 
Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee, 
Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears, 
Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 
Are  all  with  thee,  — are  all  with  thee  ! 


332 


THE  EVENING  STAR. 


Just  above  yon  sandy  bar, 

As  the  day  grows  fainter  and  dimmer, 
Lonely  and  lovely,  a  single  star 

Lights  the  air  with  a  dusky  glimmer. 

Into  the  ocean  faint  and  far 

Falls  the  trail  of  its  golden  splendor, 
And  the  gleam  of  that  single  star 

Is  ever  refulgent,  soft,  and  tender. 


THE   EVENING  STAR. 


333 


Chrysaor  rising  out  of  the  sea, 

Showed  thus  glorious  and  thus  emulous, 
Leaving  the  arms  of  Callirrhoe, 

For  ever  tender,  soft,  and  tremulous. 

Thus  o'er  the  ocean  faint  and  far 

Trailed  the  gleam  of  his  falchion  brightly  ; 
[s  it  a  God,  or  is  it  a  star 

That,  entranced,  I  gaze  on  nightly  ! 


334 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  SEA 


Ah  !  what  pleasant  visions  haunt  me 

As  I  gaze  upon  the  sea  ! 
All  the  old  romantic  legends, 

All  my  dreams,  come  back  to  me. 

Sails  of  silk  and  ropes  of  sendal, 
Such  as  gleam  in  ancient  lore  ; 

And  the  singing  of  the  sailors, 
And  the  answer  from  the  shore  ! 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  SEA. 


335 


Most  of  all,  the  Spanish  ballad 
Haunts  me  oft,  and  tarries  long, 

Of  the  noble  Count  Arnaldos 
And  the  sailor's  mystic  song. 

Like  the  long  waves  on  a  sea-beach, 
Where  the  sand  as  silver  shines, 

With  a  soft,  monotonous  cadence, 
Flow  its  unrhymed  lyric  lines  ;  — • 

Telling  how  the  Count  Arnaldos, 
With  his  hawk  upon  his  hand, 

Saw  a  fair  and  stately  galley, 
Steering  onward  to  the  land  ;  — 

How  he  heard  the  ancient  helmsman 
Chant  a  song  so  wild  and  clear, 

That  the  sailing  sea-bird  slowly 
Poised  upon  the  mast  to  hear, 


336 


BY  THE   SEASIDE  . 


Till  his  soul  was  full  of  longing, 

And  he  cried,  with  impulse  strong,  — 

u  Helmsman  !  for  the  love  of  heaven, 
Teach  me,  too,  that  wondrous  song  !  " 

u  Wouldst  thou,"— so  the  helmsman  answered, 

"  Learn  the  secret  of  the  sea  ? 
Only  those  who  brave  its  dangers 

Comprehend  its  mystery  !  " 

In  each  sail  that  skims  the  horizon, 
In  each  landward-blowing  breeze, 

I  behold  that  stately  galley, 

Hear  those  mournful  melodies  ; 

Till  my  soul  is  full  of  longing 

For  the  secret  of  the  sea, 
And  the  heart  of  the  great  ocean 

Sends  a  thrilling  pulse  through  me. 


337 


TWILIGHT. 


The  twilight  is  sad  and  cloudy, 
The  wind  blows  wild  and  free> 

And  like  the  wings  of  sea-birds 
Flash  the  white  caps  of  the  sea. 

But  in  the  fisherman's  cottage 

There  shines  a  ruddier  light, 
And  a  little  face  at  the  window 

Peers  out  into  the  night. 

22 


EY    THE  SEASIDE. 

Close,  close  it  is  pressed  to  the  window, 

As  if  those  childish  eyes 
Were  looking  into  the  darkness, 

To  see  some  form  arise. 

And  a  woman's  waving  shadow 

Is  passing  to  and  fro, 
Now  rising  to  the  ceiling, 

Now  bowing  and  bending  low. 

What  tale  do  the  roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night-wind,  bleak  and  wild, 

As  they  beat  at  the  crazy  casement, 
Tell  to  that  little  child  ? 

And  why  do  the  roaring  ocean,. 

And  the  night-wind,  wild  and  bleak, 

As  they  beat  at  the  heart  of  the  mother, 
Drive  the  color  from  her  cheek  ? 


339 


SIR  HUMPHREY  GILBERT. 


Southward  with  fleet  of  ice 
Sailed  the  corsair  Death  ; 

Wild  and  fast  blew  the  blast, 

And  the  east-wind  was  his  breath. 

His  lordly  ships  of  ice 

Glistened  in  the  sun  ; 
On  each  side,  like  pennons  wide, 

Flashing  crystal  streamlets  run. 


BY   THE  SEASIDE. 


His  sails  of  white  sea-mist 

Dripped  with  silver  rain  ; 
But  where  he  passed  there  were  cast 

Leaden  shadows  o'er  the  main. 

Eastward  from  Campobello 
Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  sailed  ; 

Three  days  or  more  seaward  he  bore, 
Then,  alas  !  the  land-wind  failed. 

Alas  !  the  land-wind  failed, 
And  ice-cold  grew  the  night ; 

And  never  more,  on  sea  or  shore, 
Should  Sir  Humphrey  see  the  light. 

He  sat  upon  the  deck, 

The  Book  was  in  his  hand  ; 

"  Do  not  fear  !  Heaven  is  as  near," 
He  said,  cc  by  water  as  by  land  !  " 


SIR   HUMPHREY   GILBERT.  341 

In  the  first  watch  of  the  night, 

Without  a  signal's  sound, 
Out  of  the  sea,  mysteriously, 

The  fleet  of  Death  rose  all  around. 

The  moon  and  the  evening  star 

Were  hanging  in  the  shrouds  ; 
Every  mast,  as  it  passed, 

Seemed  to  rake  the  passing  clouds. 

They  grappled  with  their  prize, 

At  midnight  black  and  cold  ! 
As  of  a  rock  was  the  shock  ; 

Heavily  the  ground-swell  rolled. 

Southward  through  day  and  dark, 

They  drift  in  close  embrace, 
With  mist  and  rain,  to  the  Spanish  Main  , 

Yet  there  seems  no  change  of  place. 


342 


BY    THE  SEASIDE. 


Southward,  for  ever  southward, 
They  drift  through  dark  and  day  ; 

And  like  a  dream,  in  the  Gulf- Stream 
Sinking,  vanish  all  away. 


343 


THE  LIGHTHOUSE. 


The  rocky  ledge  runs  far  into  the  sea, 
And  on  its  outer  point,  some  miles  away, 

The  Lighthouse  lifts  its  massive  masonry, 
A  pillar  of  fire  by  night,  of  cloud  by  day. 

Even  at  this  distance  I  can  see  the  tides, 
Upheaving,  break  unheard  along  its  base, 

A  speechless  wrath,  that  rises  and  subsides 
In  the  white  lip  and  tremor  of  the  face. 


344 


BY    THE  SEASIDE. 


And  as  the  evening  darkens,  lo  !  how  bright, 
•  Through  the  deep  purple  of  the  twilight  air, 
Beams  forth  the  sudden  radiance  of  its  light 
With  strange,  unearthly  splendor  in  its  glare  ! 

Not  one  alone  ;  from  each  projecting  cape 
And  perilous  reef  along  the  ocean's  verge, 

Starts  into  life  a  dim,  gigantic  shape, 

Holding  its  lantern  o'er  the  restless  surge. 

Like  the  great  giant  Christopher  it  stands 
Upon  the  brink  of  the  tempestuous  wave, 

Wading  far  out  among  the  rocks  and  sands, 
The  night-o'ertaken  mariner  to  save. 

And  the  great  ships  sail  outward  and  return, 
Bending  and  bowing  o'er  the  billowy  swells, 

And  ever  joyful,  as  they  see  it  burn, 

They  wave  their  silent  welcomes  and  farewells. 


THE  LIGHTHOUSE. 


345 


They  come  forth  from  the  darkness,  and  their  sails 
Gleam  for  a  moment  only  in  the  blaze, 

And  eager  faces,  as  the  light  unveils, 

Gaze  at  the  tower,  and  vanish  while  they  gaze. 

The  mariner  remembers  when  a  child, 

On  his  first  voyage,  he  saw  it  fade  and  sink  ; 

And  when,  returning  from  adventures  wild, 
He  saw  it  rise  again  o?er  ocean's  brink. 

Steadfast,  serene,  immovable,  the  same 
Year  after  year,  through  all  the  silent  night 

Burns  on  for  evermore  that  quenchless  flame, 
Shines  on  that  inextinguishable  light  ! 

It  sees  the  ocean  to  its  bosom  clasp 

The  rocks  and  sea-sand  with  the  kiss  of  peace  ; 
It  sees  the  wild  winds  lift  it  in  their  grasp, 

And  hold  it  up,  and  shake  it  like  a  fleece. 


346 


BY   THE  SEASIDE. 


The  startled  waves  leap  over  it ;  the  storm 
Smites  it  with  all  the  scourges  of  the  rain, 

And  steadily  against  its  solid  form 

Press  the  great  shoulders  of  the  hurricane. 

The  sea-bird  wheeling  round  it,  with  the  din 
Of  wings  and  winds  and  solitary  cries, 

Blinded  and  maddened  by  the  light  within, 
Dashes  himself  against  the  glare,  arid  dies. 

A  new  Prometheus,  chained  upon  the  rock, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  the  fire  of  Jove, 

It  does  not  hear  the  cry,  nor  heed  the  shock, 
But  hails  the  mariner  with  words  of  love. 

"  Sail  on  !  "  it  says,  "  sail  on,  ye  stately  ships- 
And  with  your  floating  bridge  the  ocean  span 

Be  mine  to  guard  this  light  from  all  eclipse, 
Be  yours  to  bring  man  nearer  unto  man  !  " 


347 


THE  FIRE  OF  DRIFT- WOOD. 


We  sat  within  the  farm-house  old, 
Whose  windows,  looking  o'er  the  bay, 

Gave  to  the  sea-breeze,  damp  and  cold, 
An  easy  entrance,  night  and  day. 

Not  far  away  we  saw  the  port,  — 

The  strange,  old-fashioned,  silent  town,  — 
The  light-house,  — the  dismantled  fort,  — 

The  wooden  houses,  quaint  and  brown. 


348 


BY  THE  SEASIDE. 


We  sat  and  talked  until  the  night, 
Descending,  filled  the  little  room  ; 

Our  faces  faded  from  the  sight, 
Our  voices  only  broke  the  gloom. 

We  spake  of  many  a  vanished  scene, 
Of  what  we  once  had  thought  and  said, 

Of  what  had  been,  and  might  have  been. 
And  who  was  changed,  and  who  was  dead 

And  all  that  fills  the  hearts  of  friends. 
When  first  they  feel,  with  secret  p?in? 

Their  lives  thenceforth  have  separate  £ads, 
And  never  can  be  one  again  ; 

The  first  slight  swerving  of  the  heartv 
That  words  are  powerless  to  express 

And  leave  it  still  unsaid  in  part, 
Or  say  it  in  too  great  excess. 


THE    FIRE    OF  DRIFT-WOOD. 


349 


The  very  tones  in  which  we  spake 

Had  something  strange,  I  could  but  mark  ; 

The  leaves  of  memory  seemed  to  make 
A  mournful  rustling  in  the  dark. 

Oft  died  the  words  upon  our  lips, 

As  suddenly,  from  out  the  fire 
Built  of  the  wreck  of  stranded  ships, 

The  flames  would  leap  and  then  expire. 

And,  as  their  splendor  flashed  and  failed, 
We  thought  of  wrecks  upon  the  main,  — 

Of  ships  dismasted,  that  were  hailed 
And  sent  no  answer  back  again. 

The  windows,  rattling  in  their  frames,  — 
The  oceaa,  roaring  up  the  beach,  — 

The  gusty  blast,  — the  bickering  flames,  — 
All  mingled  vaguely  in  our  speech  ; 


350 


BY    THE  SEASIDE. 


Until  they  made  themselves  a  part 

Of  fancies  floating  through  the  brain,  - — 

The  long-lost  ventures  of  the  heart, 
That  send  no  answers  back  again. 

O  flames  that  glowed  !  O  hearts  that  yearned 
They  were  indeed  too  much  akin,  * 

The  drift-wood  fire  without  that  burned, 
The  thoughts  that  burned  and  glowed  withi] 


BY   THE  FIRESIDE. 


353 


RESIGNATION. 


There  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended 

But  one  dead  Iamb  is  there  ! 
There  is  no  fireside,  howsoe'er  defended, 

But  has  one  vacant  chair  ! 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying, 

And  mournings  for  the  dead  ; 
The  heart  of  Rachel,  for  her  children  crying, 

Will  not  be  comforted  ! 

23 


354 


BY    THE  .FIRESIDE. 


Let  us  be  patient  !  These  severe  afflictions 

Not  from  the  ground  arise, 
But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 

Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and  vapor* 

Amid  these  earthly  damps 
What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funereal  tapers 

May  be  heaven's  distant  lamps.  • 

There  is  no  Death  !  What  seems  so  is  transition 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 

Whose  portal  we  call  Death. 

She  is  not  dead,  —  the  child  of  our  affection,  — 

But  gone  unto  that  school 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  protection, 

And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 


RESIGNATION. 


355 


In  that  great  cloister's  stillness  and  seclusion, 

By  guardian  angels  led, 
Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin's  pollution, 

She  lives,  whom  we  call  dead. 

Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 

In  those  bright  realms  of  air  ; 
Year  after  year,  her  tender  steps  pursuing, 

Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,  and  keep  unbroken 

The  bond  which  nature  gives, 
Thinking  that  our  remembrance,  though  unspoken, 

May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her  ; 

For  when  with  raptures  wild 
In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 

She  will  not  be  a  child  ; 


356 


BY   THE  FIRESIDE. 


But  a  fair  maiden,  in  her  Father's  mansion, 

Clothed  with  celestial  grace  ; 
And  beautiful  with  all  the  soul's  expansion 

Shall  we  behold  her  face. 

And  though  at  times  impetuous  with  emotion 

And  anguish  long  suppressed, 
The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like  the  ocean, 

That  cannot  be  at  rest,  — 

We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feeling 

We  may  not  wholly  stay  ; 
By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing, 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 


357 


THE  BUILDERS. 


All  are  architects  of  Fate, 

Working  in  these  walls  of  Time  , 

Some  with  massive  deeds  and  great, 
Some  with  ornaments  of  rhyme. 

Nothing  useless  is,  or  low  ; 

Each  thing  in  its  place  is  best ; 
And  what  seems  but  idle  show 

Strengthens  and  supports  the  rest. 


358 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


For  the  structure  that  we  raise, 
Time  is  with  materials  filled  ; 

Our  to-days  and  yesterdays 

Are  the  blocks  with  which  we  build. 

Truly  shape  and  fashion  these  ; 

Leave  no  yawning  gaps  between  ; 
Think  not,  because  no  man  sees, 

Such  things  will  remain  unseen. 

In  the  elder  days  of  Art, 

Builders  wrought  with  greatest  care 
Each  minute  and  unseen  part  ; 

For  the  Gods  see  everywhere. 

Let  us  do  our  work  as  well, 
Both  the  unseen  and  the  seen  ; 

Make  the  house,  where  Gods  may  dwell, 
Beautiful,  entire,  and  clean. 


THE    BUTT  DERS. 


359 


Else  our  lives  are  incomplete, 
Standing  in  these  walls  of  Time, 

Broken  stairways,  where  the  feet 
Stumble  as  they  seek  to  climb. 

Build  to-day,  then,  strong  and  sure, 
With  a  firm  and  ample  base  ; 

And  ascending  and  secure 

Shall  to-morrow  find  its  place. 

Thus  alone  can  we  attain 

To  those  turrets,  where  the  eye 
Sees  the  world  as  one  vast  plain, 

And  one  boundless  reach  of  sky. 


360 


SAND  OF  THE   DESERT  IN  AN  HOUR- 
GLASS. 


A  handful  of  red  sand,  from  the  hot  clime 

Of  Arab  deserts  brought, 
Within  this  glass  becomes  the  spy  of  Time, 

The  minister  of  Thought. 

How  many  weary  centuries  has  it  been 

About  those  deserts  blown  ! 
How  many  strange  vicissitudes  has  seen, 

How  many  histories  known  ! 


SAND   OF    THE  DESERT. 


361 


Perhaps  the  camels  of  the  Ishmaelite 

Trampled  and  passed  it  o'er, 
When  into  Egypt  from  the  patriarch's  sight 

His  favorite  son  they  bore. 

Perhaps  the  feet  of  Moses,  burnt  and  bare, 
Crushed  it  beneath  their  tread  ; 

Or  Pharaoh's  flashing  wheels  into  the  air 
Scattered  it  as  they  sped  ; 

Or  Mary,  with  the  Christ  of  Nazareth 

Held  close  in  her  caress, 
Whose  pilgrimage  of  hope  and  love  and  faith 

Illumed  the  wilderness  ; 

Or  anchorites  beneath  Engaddi's  palms 

1  Pacing  the  Dead  Sea  beach, 
And  singing  slow  their  old  Armenian  psalms 
In  half-articulate  speech  ; 


362 


BY    THE  FIRESIDE. 


Or  caravans,  that  from  Bassora's  gate 

With  westward  steps  depart  ; 
Or  Mecca's  pilgrims,  confident  of  Fate, 

And  resolute  in  heart  ! 

These  have  passed  over  it,  or  may  have  passed 

Now  in  this  crystal  tower 
Imprisoned  by  some  curious  hand  at  last, 

It  counts  the  passing  hour. 

And  as  I  gaze,  these  narrow  walls  expand  ;  — 

Before  my  dreamy  eye 
Stretches  the  desert  with  its  shifting  sand, 

Its  unimpeded  sky. 

And  borne  aloft  by  the  sustaining  blast, 

This  little  golden  thread 
Dilates  into  a  column  high  and  vast, 

A  form  of  fear  and  dread. 


SAND    OF   THE  DESERT. 


363 


And  onward,  and  across  the  setting  sun, 
Across  the  boundless  plain, 

The  column  and  its  broader  shadow  run, 
Till  thought  pursues  in  vain. 

The  vision  vanishes  !    These  walls  again 

Shut  out  the  lurid  sun, 
Shut  out  tne  not,  immeasurable  plain  ; 

The  half-hour's  sand  is  run  * 


364 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE, 


Black  shadows  fall 
From  the  lindens  tall, 
That  lift  aloft  their  massive  wall 
Against  the  southern  sky; 

And  from  the.  realms 
Of  the  shadowy  elms 
A  tide-like  darkness  overwhelms 
The  fields  that  round  us  lie. 


SIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 


365 


But  the  night  is  fair, 
And  everywhere 
A  warm,  soft,  vapor  fills  the  air, 
And  distant  sounds  seem  near  ; 

And  above,  in  the  light 
Of  the  star-lit  night, 
Swift  birds  of  passage  wing  their  flight 
Through  the  dewy  atmosphere 

I  hear  the  beat 
Of  their  pinions  fleet, 
As  from  the  land  of  snow  and  sleet 
They  seek  a  southern  lea. 

1  hear  the  cry 
Of  their  voices  high 
Falling  dreamily  through  the  sky, 
But  their  forms  I  cannot  see. 


366 


EY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


O,  say  not  so  ! 
Those  sounds  that  flow 
In  murmurs  of  delight  and  woe 
Come  not  from  wings  of  birds. 

They  are  the  throngs 
Of  the  poet's  songs, 

Murmurs  of  pleasures,  and  pains,  and  wron: 
The  sound  of  winged  words. 

This  is  the  cry 
Of  souls,  that  high 
On  toiling,  beating  pinions,  fly, 
Seeking  a  warmer  clime. 

From  their  distant  flight 
Through  realms  of  light 
It  falls  into  our  world  of  night, 

With  the  murmuring  sound  of  rhyme. 


3o7 


THE  OPEN  WINDOW. 


The  old  house  by  the  lindens 
Stood  silent  in  the  shade, 

And  on  the  gravelled  pathway 
The  light  and  shadow  played. 

I  saw  the  nursery  windows 
Wide  open  to  the  air  ; 

But  the  faces  of  the  children, 
They  were  no  longer  there. 


368  BY    THE    FT RE SIDE. 

The  large  Newfoundland  house-dog 
Was  standing  by  the  door  ; 

He  looked  for  his  little  playmates, 
Who  would  return  no  more. 

They  walked  not  under  the  lindens, 
They  played  not  in  the  hall  : 

But  shadow,  and  silence,  and  sadness 
Were  hanging  over  all. 

The  birds  sang  in  the  branches, 
With  sweet,  familiar  tone  ; 

But  the  voices  of  the  chilaren 
Will  be  heard  in  dreams  alone  ! 

And  the  boy  that  walked  beside  me, 
He  could  not  understand 

Why  closer  in  mine,  ah  !  closer, 
I  pressed  his  warm,  soft  hand  ! 


369 


KING  WITLAF'S  DRINKING-HORN. 


Witlaf,  a  king  of  the  Saxons, 
Ere  yet  his  last  he  breathed, 

To  the  merry  monks  of  Croyland 
His  drinking-horn  bequeathed,  — 

That,  whenever  they  sat.  at  their  revels, 
And  drank  from  the  golden  bowl, 

They  might  remember  the  donor, 
And  breathe  a  prayer  for  his  soul. 

24 


370 


BY    THE  FiRESIDE. 


So  sat  they  once  at  Christmas, 
And  bade  the  goblet  pass  ; 

In  their  beards  the  red  wine  glistened 
Like  dew-drops  in  the  grass. 

They  drank  to  the  soul  of  Witlaf, 
They  drank  to  Christ  the  Lord, 

And  to  each  of  the  Twelve  Apostles, 
Who  had  preached  his  holy  word. 

They  drank  to  the  Saints  and  Martyrs 
Of  the  dismal  days  of  yore. 

And  as  soon  as  the  horn  was  empty 
They  remembered  one  Saint  more. 

And  the  reader  droned  from  the  pulpit, 
Like  the  murmur  of  many  bees, 

The  legend  of  good  Saint  Guthlac, 
And  Saint  Basil's  homilies  ; 


KING  WITLAF'S*   1  RINK1NG-H0EN.  371 

Till  the  great  bells  of  the  convent, 

From  their  prison  in  the  tower, 
Guthlac  and  Bartholomaeus, 

Proclaimed  the  midnight  hour. 

And  the  Yule-log  cracked  in  the  chimney, 

And  the  Abbot  bowed  his  head, 
And  the  flamelets  flapped  and  flickered, 

But  the  Abbot  was  stark  and  dead. 

Yet  still  in  his  pallid  fingers 

He  clutched  the  golden  dowI, 
In  which,  like  a  pearl  dissolving, 

Had  sunk  and  dissolved  his  soul. 

But  not  for  this  their  revels 

The  jovial  monks  forbore, 
For  they  cried,  "  Fill  high  the  goblet ! 

We  must  drink  to  one  Saint  more  !  " 


GASPAR  BECERRA. 


By  his  evening  fire  the  artist 

Pondered  o'er  his  secret  shame  ; 

Baffled,  weary,  and  disheartened, 

Still  he  mused,  and  dreamed  of  fame. 

'T  was  an  image  of  the  Virgin 
That  had  tasked  his  utmost  skill  ; 

But  alas  !  his  fair  ideal 

Vanished  and  escaped  him  still. 


GASP AR  BECERRA. 


373 


From  a  distant  Eastern  island 

Had  the  precious  wood  been  brought ; 
Day  and  night  the  anxious  master 

At  his  toil  untiring  wrought ; 

Till,  discouraged  and  desponding, 

Sat  he  now  in  shadows  deep, 
And  the  day's  humiliation 

Found  oblivion  in  sleep. 

Then  a  voice  cried,  "  Rise,  O  master  ! 

From  the  burning  brand  of  oak 
Shape  the  thought  that  stirs  within  thee  !  " 

And  the  startled  artist  woke,  — ■ 

Woke,  and  from  the  smoking  embers 
Seized  and  quenched  the  glowing  wood  ; 

And  therefrom  he  carved  an  image, 
And  he  saw  that  it  was  good. 


374 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


O  thou  sculptor,  painter,  poet ! 

Take  this  lesson  to  thy  heart : 
That  is  best  which  lieth  nearest ; 

Shape  from  that  thy  work  of  art. 


pp:gasus  in  pound. 


Once  into  a  quiet  village, 

Without  haste  and  without  heed, 

In  the  golden  prime  of  morning, 
Strayed  the  poet's  winged  steed. 

-  It  was  Autumn,  and  incessant 

Piped  the  quails  from  shocks  and  sheave 
And,  like  living  coals,  the  apples 
Burned  among  the  withering  leaves. 


BY  THE  rlKESIDE. 

Loud  the  clamorous  bell  was  ringing 
From  its  belfry  gaunt  and  grim  ; 

'T  was  the  daily  call  to  labor, 
Not  a  triumph  meant  for  him. 

Not  the  less  he  saw  the  landscape, 
In  its  gleaming  vapor  veiled  ; 

Not  the  less  he  breathed  the  odors 
That  the  dying  leaves  exhaled. 

Thus,  upon  the  village  common, 
By  the  school-boys  he  was  found ; 

And  the  wise  men,  in  their  wisdom, 
Put  him  straightway  into  pound. 

Then  the  sombre  village  crier, 
Ringing  loud  his  brazen  bell, 

Wandered  down  the  street  proclaiming 
There  was  an  estray  to  sell. 


PEGASUS  IN  POUND. 


377 


And  the  curious  country  people, 
Rich  and  poor,  and  young  and  old, 

Came  in  haste  to  see  this  wondrous 
Winged  steed,  with  mane  of  gold. 

Thus  the  day  passed,  and  the  evening 
Fell,  with  vapors  cold  and  dim  ; 

But  it  brought  no  food  nor  shelter, 
Brought  no  straw  nor  stall,  for  him. 

Patiently,  and  still  expectant, 

Looked  he  through  the  wooden  bars, 
Saw  the  moon  rise  o'er  the  landscape, 

Saw  the  tranquil,  patient  stars  ; 

Till  at  length  the  bell  at  midnight 
Sounded  from  its  dark  abode, 

And,  from  out  a  neighbouring  farm-yaid 
Loud  the  cock  Alectryon  crowed. 


378 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE 


Then,  with  nostrils  wide  distended, 
Breaking  from  his  iron  chain, 

And  unfolding  far  his  pinions, 
To  those  stars  he  soared  again. 

On  the  morrow,  when  the  village 
Woke  to  all  its  toil  and  care, 

Lo  !  the  strange  steed  had  departed, 
And  they  knew  not  when  nor  where. 

But  they  found,  upon  the  greensward 
Where  his  struggling  hoofs  had  trod, 

Pure  and  bright,  a  fountain  flowing 
From  the  hoof-marks  in  the  sod. 

From  that  hour,  the  fount  unfailing 
Gladdens  the  whole  region  round, 

Strengthening  all  who  drink  its  waters, 
While  it  soothes  them  with  its  sound. 


379 


TEGNE1TS  DRAPA. 


I  heard  a  voice,  that  cried, 
"  Balder  the  Beautiful 
Is  dead,  is*  dead  !  " 
An.d  through  the  misty  air 
Passed  like  the  mournful  cry 
Of  sunward  sailing  cranes. 


380 


BY    THE    T  v  RE  SIDE. 


I  saw  the  pallid  corpse 
Of  the  dead  sun 

Borne  through  the  Northern  sky. 
Blasts  from  Niffelheim 
Lifted  the  sheeted  mists 
Around  him  as  he  passed. 

And  the  voice  for  ever  cried, 

"  Balder  the  Beautiful 

Is  dead  is  dead  !  " 

And  died  away 

Through  the  dreary  night, 

In  accents  of  despair. 

Balder  the  Beautiful, 
God  of  the  summer  sun, 
Fairest  of  all  the  Gods  ! 
Light  from  his  forehead  beamed, 
Runes  were  upon  his  tongue, 
As  on  the  warrior's  sword. 


tegner's  drapa. 

All  things  in  earth  and  air 
Bound  were  by  magic  spell 
Never  to  do  him  harm  ; 
Even  the  plants  and  stones  ; 
All  save  the  mistletoe, 
The  sacred  mistletoe ! 

Hoeder,  the  blind  old  God, 
Whose  feet  are  shod  with  silence. 
Pierced  through  that  gentle  breast 
With  his  sharp  spear,  by  fraud 
Made  of  the  mistletoe, 
The  accursed  mistletoe  ! 

They  laid  him  in  his  ship, 
With  horse  and  harness, 
As  on  a  funeral  pyre. 
Odin  placed 
A  ring  upon  his  finger, 
And  whispered  in  his  ear. 


382 


BY    THE  FIRESIDE. 


They  launched  the  burning  ship  ! 

It  floated  far  away 

Over  the  misty  sea, 

Till  like  the  sun  it  seemed, 

Sinking  beneath  the  waves. 

Balder  returned  no  more  ! 

So  perish  the  old  Gods  ! 
But  out  of  the  sea  of  Time 
Rises  a  new  land  of  song, 
Fairer  than  the  old. 
Over  its  meadows  green 
Walk  the  young  bards  and  sing. 

Build  it  again, 

O  ye  bards, 

Fairer  than  before  ! 

Ye  fathers  of  the  new  race, 

Feed  upon  morning  dew, 

Sing  the  new  Song  of  Love  ! 


TEGNEK  '8  QRAPA. 


383 


The  law  of  force  is  dead  ! 
The  law  of  love  prevails  ! 
Thor,  the  thunderer, 
Snail  rule  the  earth  no  more, 
No  more,  with  threats, 
Challenge  the  meek  Christ. 

Sing  no  more, 
O  ye  bards  of  the  North, 
Of  Vikings  and  of  Jarls  ! 
Of  the  days  of  Eld 
Preserve  the  freedom  only 
Not  the  deeds  of  blood  * 


384 


SONNET 

ON  MRS.  KEMBLE'S  READINGS  FROM  SHAKSPEARE, 

O  precious  evenings  !  all  too  swiftly  sped  ! 

Leaving  us  heirs  to  amplest  heritages 

Of  all  the  best  thoughts  of  the  greatest  sages, 

And  giving  tongues  unto  the  silent  dead  ! 

How  our  hearts  glowed  and  trembled  as  she  read 

Interpreting  by  tones  the  wondrous  pages 

Of  the  great  poet  who  foreruns  the  ages, 

Anticipating  all  that  shall  be  said  ! 


SONNET. 


385 


0  happy  Reader  !  having  for  thy  text 
The  magic  book,  whose  Sibylline  leaves  have 
caught 

The  rarest  essence  of  all  human  thought  ! 
O  happy  Poet  !  by  no  critic  vext  ! 
How  must  thy  listening  spirit  now  rejoice 
To  be  interpreted  by  such  a  voice  ! 


25 


386 


THE  SINGERS. 


God  sent  his  Singers  upon  earth 
With  songs  of  sadness  and  of  mirth, 
That  they  might  touch  the  hearts  of  men, 
And  bring  them  back  to  heaven  again. 

The  first,  a  youth,  with  soul  of  fire, 

Held  in  his  hand  a  golden  lyre  ; 

Through  groves  he  wandered,  and  by  streams, 

Playing  the  music  of  our  dreams. 


THE  SINGERS. 


387 


The  second,  with  a  bearded  face, 
Stood  singing  in  the  market-place, 
And  stirred  with  accents  deep  and  loud 
The  hearts  of  all  the  listening  crowd. 

A  gray,  old  man,  the  third  and  last, 
Sang  in  cathedrals  dim  and  vast, 
While  the  majestic  organ  rolled 
Contrition  from  its  mouths  of  gold. 

And  those  who  heard  the  Singers  three 
Disputed  which  the  best  might  be  ; 
For  still  their  music  seemed  to  start 
Discordant  echoes  in  each  heart. 

But  the  great  Master  said,  "  I  see 

No  best  in  kind,  but  in  degree  ; 

I  gave  a  various  gift  to  each, 

To  charm,  to  strengthen,  and  to  teach. 


388 


BY    THE  FIRESIDE. 


u  These  are  the  three  great  chords  of  might, 
And  he  whose  ear  is  tuned  aright 
Will  hear  no  discord  in  the  three, 
But  the  most  perfect  harmony." 


389 


SUSPIRIA. 


Take  them,  O  Death  !  and  bear  away 
Whatever  thou  canst  call  thine  own  ! 

Thine  image,  stamped  upon  this  clay, 
Doth  give  thee  that,  but  that  alone  ! 

Take  them,  (XGrave  !  and  let  them  lie 
Folded  upon  thy  narrow  shelves, 

As  garments  by  the  soul  laid  by, 
And  precious  only  to  ourselves  ! 


390 


BY    THE  FIRESIDE. 


Take  them,  O  great  Eternity  ! 

Our  little  life  is  but  a  gust, 
That  bends  the  branches  of  thy  tree, 

And  trails  its  blossoms  in  the  dust 


391 


HYMN 


FOR  MY  BROTHER'S  ORDINATION. 

Christ  to  the  young  man  said  :  "  Yet  one 
more  ; 

If  thou  wouldst  perfect  be, 
Sell  all  thou  hast  and  give  it  to  the  poor, 
And  come  and  follow  me  !  " 


Within  this  temple  Christ  again,  unseen, 
Those  sacred  words  hath  said, 

And  his  invisible  hands  to-day  have  been 
Laid  on  a  young  man's  head. 


392 


BY    THE  FIRESIDE. 


And  evermore  beside  him  on  his  way 
The  unseen  Christ  shall  move, 

That  he  may  lean  upon  his  arm  and  say, 
"Dost  thou,  dear  Lord,  approve  ?  " 

Beside  him  at  the  marriage  feast  shall  be, 
To  make  the  scene  more  fair  ; 

Beside  him  in  the  dark  Gethsemane 
Of  pain  and  midnight  prayer. 

O  holy  trust  !  O  endless  sense  of  rest  1 

Like  the  beloved  John 
To  lay  his  head  upon  the  Saviour's  breast, 

And  thus  to  journey  on  1 


BLIND  GIRL  OF  CASTEL-CUILLE. 


FROM  THE  GASCON  OF  JASMIN. 


Only  the  Lowland  tongue  of  Scotland  migh 
Rehearse  this  little  tragedy  aright; 
Let  me  attempt  it  with  an  English  quill ; 
And  take,  O  Reader,  for  the  deed  the  will. 


395 


THE  BLIND  GIRL  OF  CASTEL-CUILLE. 

FROM  THE  GASCON  OF  JASMIN. 
I. 

At  the  foot  of  the  mountain  height 
Where  is  perched  Castel-Cuille, 

When  the  apple,  the  plum,  and  the  almond  tree 
In  the  plain  below  were  growing  white, 
This  is  the  song  one  might  perceive 

On  a  Wednesday  morn  of  Saint  Joseph's  Eve  : 


396 


BY    THE  FIRESIDE. 


"  The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should 
bloom, 

So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home  ! 
Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day  !  " 

This  old  Te  Deum,  rustic  rites  attending, 
Seemed  from  the  clouds  descending  ; 
When  lo  !  a  merry  company 
Of  rosy  village  girls,  clean  as  the  eye, 

Each  one  with  her  attendant  swam, 
Came  to  the  cliff,  all  singing  the  same  strain  ; 
Resembling  there,  so  near  unto  the  sky, 
Rejoicing  angels,  that  kind  Heaven  has  sent 
For  their  delight  and  our  encouragement. 
Together  blending, 
And  soon  descending 
The  narrow  sweep 
Of  the  hill-side  steep, 


THE    BLIND    GIRL    OF    CASTEL-CUILLE .  397 

They  wind  aslant 
Towards  Saint  Amant, 
Through  leafy  alleys 
Of  verdurous  valleys 
With  merry  sallies 
Singing  their  chant : 

a  The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should 
bloom, 

So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home  ! 
Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day  !  " 

It  is  Baptiste,  and  his  affianced  maiden, 
With  garlands  for  the  bridal  laden  ! 

The  sky  was  blue  ;  without  one  cloud  of  gloom, 
The  sun  of  March  was  shining  brightly, 


398 


BY   THE  FIRESIDE. 


And  to  the  air  the  freshening  wind  gave  lightly 
Its  breathings  of  perfume. 

When  one  beholds  the  dusky  hedges  blossom, 
A  rustic  bridal,  ah  !  how  sweet  it  is  ! 

To  sounds  of  joyous  melodies, 
That  touch  with  tenderness  the  trembling  bosom, 
A  band  of  maidens 
Gayly  frolicking, 
A  band  of  youngsters 
Wildly  rollicking  ! 
Kissing, 
Caressing, 
With  fingers  pressing, 

Till  in  the  veriest 
Madness  of  mirth,  as  they  dance, 
They  retreat  and  advance, 

Trying  whose  laugh  shall  be  loudest 
and  merriest ; 


THE    BLIND   GIRL    OF    CAS  TEL   CUILLE.  399 


While  the  bride,  with  roguish  eyes, 
Sporting  with  them,  now  escapes  and  cries  : 
"  Those  who  catch  me 

Married  verily 

This  year  shall  be  !  " 

And  all  pursue  with  eager  haste, 
And  all  attain  what  they  pursue, 
And  touch  her  pretty  apron  fresh  and  new, 
And  the  linen  kirtle  round  her  waist. 


Meanwhile,  whence  comes  it  that  among 
These  youthful  maidens  fresh  and  fair, 
So  joyous,  with  such  laughing  air, 
Baptiste  stands  sighing,  with  silent  tongue  ? 
And  yet  the  bride  is  fair  and  young  ! 
Is  it  Saint  Joseph  would  say  to  us  all, 
That  love,  o'er-hasty,  precedeth  a  fall  ? 
O,  no  !  for  a  maiden  frail,  I  trow, 
Never  bore  so  lofty  a  brow  ! 


400 


BY    THE  FIRESIDE. 


What  lovers  !  they  give  not  a  single  caress  ! 
To  see  them  so  careless  and  cold  to-day, 

These  are  grand  people,  one  would  say, 
What  ails  Baptiste  ?  what  grief  doth  him  oppres 

It  is,  that,  half  way  up  the  hill, 
In  yon  cottage,  by  whose  walls 
Stand  the  cart-house  and  the  stalls, 
Dwelleth  the  blind  orphan  still, 
Daughter  of  a  veteran  old  ; 
And  you  must  know,  one  year  ago, 
That  Margaret,  the  young  and  tender, 
Was  the  village  pride  and  splendor, 
And  Baptiste  her  lover  bold. 
Love,  the  deceiver,  them  ensnared  ; 
For  them  the  altar  was  prepared  ; 
But  alas  !  the  summer's  blight, 
The  dread  disease  that  none  can  stay, 
The  pestilence  that  walks  by  night, 
Took  the  young  bride's  sight  away. 


THE    BLIND    GIRL    OF    CASTEL-CUILLE.  401 

All  at  the  father's  stern  command  was  changed  ; 
Their  peace  was  gone,  but  not  their  love  estranged 
Wearied  at  home,  ere  long  the  lover  fled  ; 

Returned  but  three  short  days  ago, 

The  golden  chain  they  round  him  throw, 

He  is  enticed,  and  onward  led 

To  marry  Angela,  and  yet 

Is  thinking  ever  of  Margaret. 

Then  suddenly  a  maiden  cried, 
u  Anna,  Theresa,  Mary,  Kate  ! 
Here  comes  the  cripple  Jane  !  "   And  by  a  foun- 
tain's side 
A  woman,  bent  and  gray  with  years, 
Under  the  mulberry-trees  appears, 
And  all  towards  her  run,  as  fleet 
As  had  they  wings  upon  their  feet. 

It  is  that  Jane,  the  cripple  Jane, 
Is  a  soothsayer,  wary  and  kind. 

26 


102 


BY    THE  FIRESIDE. 


She  telleth  fortunes,  and  none  complain. 
She  promises  one  a  village  swain, 
Another  a  happy  wedding-day, 
And  the  bride  a  lovely  boy  straightway. 
All  comes  to  pass  as  she  avers  ; 
She  never  deceives,  she  never  errs. 

But  for  this  once  the  village  seer 
Wears  a  countenance  severe, 
\nd  from  beneath  her  eyebrows  thin  and  white 
Her  two  eyes  flash  like  cannons  bright 
Aimed  at  the  bridegroom  in  waistcoat  blue, 
Who,  like  a  statue,  stands  in  view  ; 
Changing  color,  as  well  he  might, 
When  the  beldame  wrinkled  and  gray 
Takes  the  young  bride  by  the  hand, 
And,  with  the  tip  of  her  reedy  wand 
Making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  doth  say  :  — 
tc  Thoughtless  Angela,  beware  ! 


THE    BLIND   GIRL    OF    CASTEL-CUILLE.  403 

Lest,  when  thou  weddest  this  false  bridegroom, 
Thou  diggest  for  thyself  a  tomb  !  " 
And  she  was  silent ;  and  the  maidens  fair 
Saw  from  each  eye  escape  a  swollen  tear  ; 
But  on  a  little  streamlet  silver-clear, 

What  are  two  drops  of  turbid  rain  ? 
Saddened  a  moment,  the  bridal  train 
Resumed  the  dance  and  song  again  ; 
The  bridegroom  only  was  pale  with  fear  ;  — 
And  down  green  alleys 
Of  verdurous  valleys, 
With  merry  sallies, 
They  sang  \ne  refrain  :  — 

M  The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should 
bloom, 

So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home  ! 
Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day  !  " 


404 


BY   THE  FIRESIDE, 


II. 


And  by  suffering  worn  and  weary, 
But  beautiful  as  some  fair  angel  yet, 
Thus  lamented  Margaret, 
In  her  cottage  lone  and  dreary  :  — 

"  He  has  arrived  !  arrived  at  last! 
Yet  Jane  has  named  him  not  these  three  days  past 

Arrived  !  yet  keeps  aloof  so  far  ! 
And  knows  that  of  my  night  he  is  the  star  ! 


THE    BLIND   GIRL   OF    C  AS T E  L  -  C  U  I  L  LE .  405 

Knows  that  long  months  I  wait  alone,  benighted, 
And  count  the  moments  since  he  went  away  ! 
Come  !  keep  the  promise  of  that  happier  day, 
That  I  may  keep  the  faith  to  thee  I  plighted  ! 
What  joy  have  I  without  thee  ?  what  delight  ? 
Grief  wastes  my  life,  and  makes  it  misery  ; 
Day  for  the  others  ever,  but  for  me 

For  ever  night !  for  ever  night ! 
When  he  is  gone 't  is  dark  !  my  soul  is  sad  ! 
I  suffer  !  O  my  God  !  come,  make  me  glad. 
When  he  is  near,  no  thoughts  of  day  intrude  ; 
Day  has  blue  heavens,  but  Baptiste  has  blue  eyes  ! 
Within  them  shines  for  me  a  heaven  of  love, 
A  heaven  all  happiness,  like  that  above, 

No  more  of  grief !  no  more  of  lassitude  ! 
Earth  I  forget,  —  and  heaven,  and  all  distresses, 
When  seated  by  my  side  my  hand  he  presses  ; 

But  when  alone,  remember  all  ! 
Where  is  Baptiste  ?  he  hears  not  when  I  call ! 


406 


BY    THE  FIRESIDE. 


A  branch  of  ivy,  dying  on  the  ground, 
I  need  some  bough  to  twine  around  ! 

In  pity  come  !  be  to  my  suffering  kind  ! 

True  love,  they  say,  in  grief  doth  more  abound  ! 
What  then  —  when  one  is  blind  ? 

"  Who  knows  ?  perhaps  I  am  forsaken  ! 
Ah  !  wroe  is  me  !  then  bear  me  to  my  grave  ! 

O  God  !  what  thoughts  within  me  waken  ! 
Away  !  he  will  return  !  I  do  but  rave  ! 

He  will  return  !  I  need  not  fear  ! 

He  swore  it  by  our  Saviour  dear  ; 

He  could  not  come 'at  his  own  will ; 

Is  weary,  or  perhaps  is  ill  ! 

Perhaps  his  heart,  in  this  disguise, 

Prepares  for  me  some  sweet  surprise  ! 
But  some  one  comes  !    Though  blind,  my  heart 
can  see  ! 

And  that  deceives  me  not  !  't  is  he  !  't  is  he  ! 9 


THE    BLIND    GIRL    OF    CAST  EL-CUILLE.  407 

And  the  door  ajar  is  set, 

And  poor,  confiding  Margaret 
Rises,  with  outstretched  arms,  but  sightless  eyes  ; 
'Tis  only  Paul,  her  brother,  who  thus  cries  :  — 

u  Angela  the  bride  has  passed  ! 
I  saw  the  wedding  guests  go  by  ; 
Tell  me,  my  sister,  why  were  we  not  asked  ? 
For  all  are  there  but  you  and  I  ! " 

"  Angela  married  !  and  not  send 

To  tell  her  secret  unto  me  ! 

O,  speak  !  who  may  the  bridegroom  be  ?  " 

"  My  sister,  \  is  Baptiste,  thy  friend  !  " 

A  cry  the  blind  girl  gave,  but  nothing  said  ; 

A  milky  whiteness  spreads  upon  her  cheeks  ; 
An  icy  hand,  as  heavy  as  lead, 
Descending,  as  her  brother  speaks, 


408 


BY    THE  FIRESIDE. 


Upon  her  heart,  that  has  ceased  to  beat, 
Suspends  awhile  its  life  and  heat. 
She  stands  beside  the  boy,  now  sore  distressed, 
A  wax  Madonna  as  a  peasant  dressed. 

At  length,  the  bridal  song  again 
Brings  her  back  to  her  sorrow  and  pain. 

"  Hark  !  the  joyous  airs  are  ringing  ! 
Sister,  dost  thou  hear  them  singing  ? 
How  merrily  they  laugh  and  jest  f 
Would  we  were  bidden  with  the  rest  ! 
I  would  don  my  hose  of  homespun  gray, 
And  my  doublet  of  linen  striped  and  gay  ; 
Perhaps  they  will  come  ;  for  they  do  not  wed 
Till  to-morrow  at  seven  o'clock,  it  is  said  !  " 
"  I  know  it  !  "  answered  Margaret ; 
Whom  the  vision,  with  aspect  black  as  jet, 


THE    BLIND    GIRL    OF    C  ASTEL- CUILLE .  409 

Mastered  again  ;  and  its  hand  of  ice 
Held  her  heart  crushed,  as  in  a  vice  ! 

u  Paul,  be  not  sad  !    5T  is  a  holiday  ; 
To-morrow  put  on  thy  doublet  gay  ! 
But  leave  me  now  for  a  while  alone." 
Away,  with  a  hop  and  a  jump,  went  Paul, 
And,  as  he  whistled  along  the  hall, 
Entered  Jane,  the  crippled  crone. 

"  Holy  Virgin  !  what  dreadful  heat ! 
I  am  faint,  and  weary,  and  out  of  breath  ! 
But  thou  art  cold,  —  art  chill  as  death  ; 
My  little  friend  !  what  ails  thee,  sweet  ?  " 
u  Nothing  !  I  heard  them  singing  home  the  bride  ; 
And,  as  I  listened  to  the  song, 
I  thought  my  turn  would  come  ere  long. 
Thou  knowest  it  is  at  Whitsuntide. 
Thy  cards  forsooth  can  never  lie, 
To  me  such  joy  they  prophesy, 


410 


BY    THE  FIRESIDE. 


Thy  skill  shall  be  vaunted  far  and  wide 
When  they  behold  him  at  my  side. 
And  poor  Baptiste,  what  sayest  thou  ? 
It  must  seem  long  to  him  ;  —  methinks  I  see  him 
now  !  " 

Jane,  shuddering,  her  hand  doth  press  : 
l<  Thy  love  I  cannot  all  approve  ; 

We  must  not  trust  too  much  to  happiness  ;  — 

Go,  pray  to  God,  that  thou  mayst  love  him  less  !  " 
"  The  more  I  pray,  the  more  I  love  ! 

It  is  no  sin,  for  God  is  on  my  side  !  " 

It  was  enough  ;  and  Jane  no  more  replied. 

Now  to  all  hope  her  heart  is  barred  and  cold  ; 
But  to  deceive  the  beldame  old 
She  takes  a  sweet,  contented  air ; 
Speak  of  foul  weather  or  of  fair, 
At  every  word  the  maiden  smiles  ! 
Thus  the  beguiler  she  beguiles  ; 


THE   BLIND   GIRL    OF   CASTEL-CUILLE.  411 

So  that,  departing  at  the  evening's  close, 

She  says,  "  She  may  be  saved  !  she  nothing 
knows  !  " 

Poor  Jane,  the  cunning  sorceress  ! 
Now  that  thou  wouldst,  thou  art  no  prophetess  ! 
This  morning,  in  the  fulness  of  thy  heart, 

Thou  wast  so,  far  beyond  thine  art  ! 


/ 


412  BY   THE  FIRESIDE. 


III. 


Now  rings  the  bell,  nine  times  reverberating, 
And  the  white  daybreak,  stealing  up  the  sky, 
Sees  in  two  cottages  two  maidens  waiting, 
How  differently  ! 

Queen  of  a  day,  by  flatterers  caressed, 

The  one  puts  on  her  cross  and  crown, 
Decks  with  a  huge  bouquet  her  breast, 
And  flaunting,  fluttering  up  and  down, 
Looks  at  herself,  and  cannot  rest. 


THE    BLIND   GIRL    OF    CASTEL-CUILLE.  413 


The  other,  blind,  within  her  little  room, 

Has  neither  crown  nor  flower's  perfume  ; 
But  in  their  stead  for  something  gropes  apart, 

That  in  a  drawer's  recess  doth  lie, 
And,  'neath  her  bodice  of  bright  scarlet  dye. 

Convulsive  clasps  it  to  her  heart. 

The  one,  fantastic,  light  as  air, 

?Mid  kisses  ringing, 

And  joyous  singing, 
Forgets  to  say  her  morning  prayer  ! 

The  other,  with  cold  drops  upon  her  brow, 

Joins  her  two  hands,  and  kneels  upon  the  floor, 
And  whispers,  as  her  brother  opes  the  door, 
"  O  God  !  forgive  me  now  !  " 

And  then  the  orphan,  young  and  blind, 
Conducted  by  her  brother's  hand, 


414  BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

Towards  the  church,  through  paths  unscanned, 

With  tranquil  air,  her  way  doth  wind. 
Odors  of  laurel,  making  her  faint  and  pale, 

Round  her  at  times  exhale, 
And  in  the  sky  as  yet  no  sunny  ray, 

But  brumal  vapors  gray. 

Near  that  castle,  fair  to  see, 
Civtvded  with  sculptures  old,  in  every  part, 

Marvels  of  nature  and  of  art, 

And  proud  of  its  name  of  high  degree, 

A  little  chapel,  almost  bare 

At  the  base  of  the  rock,  is  builded  there  ; 

All  glorious  that  it  lifts  aloof, 

Above  each  jealous  cottage  roof, 
Its  sacred  summit,  swept  by  autumn  gales, 

And  its  blackened  steeple  high  in  air, 

Round  which  the  osprey  screams  and  sails. 


THE    BLIND   GIRL    OF    CASTEL-CUILLE.  415 

"  Paul,  lay  thy  noisy  rattle  by  !  " 
Thus  Margaret  said.     "  Where  are  we  ?  we  as- 
cend !  " 

"  Yes  ;  seest  thou  not  our  journey's  end  ? 
Hearest  not  the  osprey  from  the  belfry  cry  ? 
The  Hideous  bird,  that  brings  ill  luck,  we  know  ! 
Dost  thou  remember  when  our  father  said, 

The  night  we  watched  beside  his  bed, 

c  O  daughter,  I  am  weak  and  low ; 
Take  care  of  Paul ;  I  feel  that  I  am  dying  !  ' 
And  thou,  and  he,  and  I,  all  fell  to  crying  ? 
Then  on  the  roof  the  osprey  screamed  aloud  ; 
And  here  they  brought  our  father  in  his  shroud. 
There  is  his  grave  ;  there  stands  the  cross  we  set ; 
Why  dost  thou  clasp  me  so,  dear  Margaret  ? 

Come  in  !    The  bride  will  be  here  soon  : 
Triou  tremblest  !   O  my  God  !  thou  art  going  to 
swoon  !  " 


416 


BY    THE  FIRESIDE. 


She  could  no  more,  —  the  blind  girl,  weak  and 
weary  ! 

A  voice  seemed  crying  from  that  grave  so  dreary, 
"  What  wouldst  thou  do,  my  daughter  ?  "  —  and 
she  started  ; 
And  quick  recoiled,  aghast,  faint-hearted  ; 
But  Paul,  impatient,  urges  ever  more 

Her  steps  towards  the  open  door ; 
And  when,  beneath  her  feet,  the  unhappy  maid 
Crushes  the  laurel  near  the  house  immortal, 
And  with  her  head,  as  Paul  talks  on  again, 
Touches  the  crown  of  filigrane 
Suspended  from  the  low-arched  portal, 
No  more  restrained,  no  more  afraid, 
She  walks,  as  for  a  feast  arrayed, 
And  in  the  ancient  chapel's  sombre  night 
They  both  are  lost  to  sight. 

At  length  the  bell, 
With  booming  sound, 


THE    BLIND   GIRL    OF   CASTEL-CUILLE.  417 

Sends  forth,  resounding  round, 
Its  hymeneal  peal  o'er  rock  and  down  the  del) 
It  is  broad  day,  with  sunshine  and  with  rain  ; 
And  yet  the  guests  delay  not  long, 
For  soon  arrives  the  bridal  train, 
And  with  it  brings  the  village  throng. 

In  sooth,  deceit  maketh  no  mortal  gay, 
For  lo  !  Baptiste  on  this  triumphant  day, 
Mute  as  an  idiot,  sad  as  y ester-morning, 
Thinks  only  of  the  beldame's  words  of  warning. 

And  Angela  thinks  of  her  cross,  I  wis  ; 
To  be  a  bride  is  all !    The  pretty  lisper 
Feels  her  heart  swell  to  hear  all  round  her  whisper 
"  How  beautiful  !  how  beautiful  she  is  !  " 

But  she  must  calm  that  giddy  head. 
For  already  the  Mass  is  said  ; 

27 


418 


BY    THE  FIRESIDE. 


At  the  holy  table  stands  the  priest ; 
The  wedding  ring  is  blessed  ;  Baptiste  receives  it  : 
Ere  on  the  finger  of  the  bride  he  leaves  it, 

He  must  pronounce  one  word  at  least  ! 
T  is  spoken  ;  and  sudden  at  the  groomsman's  side 
"  'T  is  he  !  "  a  well-known  voice  has  cried. 
And  while  the  wedding  guests  all  hold  their  breath. 
Opes  the  confessional,  and  the  blind  girl,  see  ! 
;i  Baptiste,"  she  said,  "  since  thou  hast  wished  mv 
death, 

As  holy  water  be  my  blood  for  thee  !  " 

And  calmly  in  the  air  a  knife  suspended  ! 

Doubtless  her  guardian  angel  near  attended, 
For  anguish  did  its  work  so  well. 
That,  ere  the  fatal  stroke  descended, 
Lifeless  she  fell  ! 

At  eve,  instead  of  bridal  verse, 
The  De  Profundis  filled  the  air  ; 


THE   BLIND   GIRt#  OF   CASTEL-CUILLE .  419 

Decked  with  flowers  a  simple  hearse 
To  the  church-yard  forth  they  bear  ; 
Village  girls  in  robes  of  snow 
Follow,  weeping  as  they  go  ; 
Nowhere  was  a  smile  that  day, 
No,  ah  no  !  for  each  one  seemed  to  say  :  — 

"  The  roads  should  mourn  and  be  veiled  in  gloom, 
So  fair  a  corpse  shall  leave  its  home  ! 
Should  mourn  and  should  weep,  ah,  well-away  * 
So  fair  a  corpse  shall  pass  to-day !  " 


420 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

FROM  THE  NOEI  EOURGUIGNON  DE  GUI  BAROZAl 

I  hear  along  our  street 

Pass  the  minstrel  throngs  ; 

Hark  !  they  play  so  sweet, 
On  their  hautboys,  Christmas  songs  ! 

Let  us  by  the  fire 

Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 


421 


In  December  ring 
Every  day  the  chimes  ; 
Loud  the  gleemen  sing 
In  the  streets  their  merry  rhymes. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 

Shepherds  at  the  grange, 
Where  the  Babe  was  born, 
Sang,  with  many  a  change, 
Christmas  carols  until  morn. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 

These  good  people  sang 
Songs  devout  and  sweet  ; 
While  the  rafters  rang, 
There  they  stood  with  freezing  feet. 


422 


BY   THE  FIRESIDE. 


Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 

Nuns  in  frigid  cells 
At  this  holy  tide, 
For  want  of  something  else, 
Christmas  songs  at  times  have  tried 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire ! 

Washerwomen  old, 
To  the  sound  they  beat, 
Sing  by  rivers  cold, 
With  uncovered  heads  and  feet. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 


423 


Who  by  the  fireside  stands 
Stamps  his  feet  .and  sings  ; 
But  he  who  blows  his  hands 
Not  so  gay  a  carol  brings. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 


NOTES, 


427 


NOTES. 


Page  9.    All  the  Foresters  of  Flanders. 

The  title  of  Foresters  was  given  to  the  early  gov- 
ernors of  Flanders,  appointed  by  the  kings  of  France. 
Lyderick  du  Bucq,  in  the  days  of  Clotaire  the  Second, 
was  the  first  of  them ;  and  Beaudoin  Bras-de-Fer,  who 
stole  away  the  fair  Judith,  daughter  of  Charles  the  Bald, 
from  the  French  court,  and  married  her  in  Bruges,  was 
the  last.  After  him,  the  title  of  Forester  was  changed  to 
that  of  Count.  Philippe  d' Alsace,  Guy  de  Dampierre, 
and  Louis  de  Crecy,  coming  later  in  the  order  of  time, 
were  therefore  rather  Counts  than  Foresters.  Philippe 
went  twice  to  the  Holy  Land  as  a  Crusader,  and  died  of 
the  plague  at  St.  Jean-d'Acre,  shortly  after  the  capture  of 
the  city  by  the  Christians.  Guy  de  Dampierre  died  in  the 
prison  of  Compiegne.  Louis  de  Crecy  was  son  and  suc- 
cessor of  Robert  de  Bethune,  who  strangled  his  wife. 


428 


NOTES. 


Yolande  de  Bourgogne,  with  the  bridle  of  his  horse,  for 
having  poisoned,  at  the  age  of  eleven  years,  Charles,  his 
son  by  his  first  wife,  Blanche  d'Anjou. 

Page  9.  Stately  dames,  like  queens  attended. 
When  Philippe-le-Bel,  king  of  France,  visited  Flanders 
with  his  queen,  she  was  so  astonished  at  the  magnificence 
of  the  dames  of  Bruges,  that  she  exclaimed,  —  "  Je  croyais 
etre  seule  reine  ici,  mais  il  parait  que  ceux  de  Flandre 
qui  se  trouvent  dans  nos  prisons  sont  tous  des  princes,  car 
leurs  femmes  sont  habillees  comme  des  princesses  et  des 
reines." 

When  the  burgomasters  of  Ghent,  Bruges,  and  Ypres 
went  to  Paris  to  pay  homage  to  King  John,  in  1351,  the)' 
were  received  with  great  pomp  and  distinction ;  but,  being 
invited  to  a  festival,  they  observed  that  their  seats  at  table 
were  not  furnished  with  cushions ;  whereupon,  to  make 
known  their  displeasure  at  this  want  of  regard  to  their  dig- 
nity, they  folded  their  richly  embroidered  cloaks  and  seated 
themselves  upon  them.  On  rising  from  table,  they  left 
their  cloaks  behind  them,  and,  being  informed  of  their  ap- 
parent forge tfulness,  Simon  van  Eertrycke,  burgomaster 


NOTES. 


429 


of  Bruges,  replied,  —  "  We  Flemings  are  not  in  the  habit 
of  carrying  away  our  cushions  after  dinner." 

Page  9.    Knights  who  bore  the  Fleece  of  Gold. 

Philippe  de  Bourgogne,  surnamed  Le  Bon,  espoused 
Isabella  of  Portugal,  on  the  10th  of  January,  1430 ;  and 
on  the  same  day  instituted  the  famous  order  of  the  Fleece 
of  Gold. 

Page  9.    /  beheld  the  gentle  Mary. 

Marie  de  Valois,  Duchess  of  Burgundy,  was  left  by 
the  death  of  her  father,  Charles-le-Temeraire,  at  the  age 
of  twenty,  the  richest  heiress  of  Europe.  She  came  to 
Bruges,  as  Countess  of  Flanders,  in  1477,  and  in  the  same 
year  was  married  by  proxy  to  the  Archduke  Maximilian. 
According  to  the  custom  of  the  time,  the  Duke  of  Bavaria, 
Maximilian's  substitute,  slept  with  the  princess.  They 
were  both  in  complete  dress,  separated  by  a  naked  sword, 
and  attended  by  four  armed  guards.  Marie  was  adored 
by  her  subjects  for  her  gentleness  and  her  many  other 
virtues. 

Maximilian  was  son  of  the  Emperor  Frederick  the  Third, 


430 


NOTES. 


and  is  the  same  person  mentioned  afterwards  in  the  poem 
of  Nuremberg  as  the  Kaiser  Maximilian,  and  the  hero  of 
Pfinzing's  poem  of  Teuerdank.  Having  been  imprisoned 
by  the  revolted  burghers  of  Bruges,  they  refused  to  release 
him,  till  he  consented  to  kneel  in  the  public  square,  and  to 
swear  on  the  Holy  Evangelists  and  the  body  of  Saint  Dona- 
tus,  that  he  would  not  take  vengeance  upon  them  for  their 
rebellion. 

Page  9.    The  bloody  battle  of  the  Spurs  of  Gold. 

This  battle,  the  most  memorable  in  Flemish  history,  was 
fought  under  the  walls  of  Courtray.  on  the  11th  of  July, 
1302,  between  the  French  and  the  Flemings,  the  former 
commanded  by  Robert,  Comte  d!Artois.  and  the  latter  by 
Guillaume  de  Juliers,  and  Jean,  Comte  de  Xamur.  The 
French  army  was  completely  routed,  with  a  loss  of  twenty 
thousand  infantry  and  seven  thousand  cavalry ;  amonj. 
whom  were  sixty-three  princes,  dukes,  and  counts,  seven 
hundred  lords-banneret,  and  eleven  hundred  noblemen 
The  flower  of  the  French  nobility  perished  on  that  day  j 
to  which  history  has  given  the  name  of  the  Journee  des 
Bpenm  d'  Or.  from  the  great  number  of  golden  spurs  found 


NOTES. 


431 


on  the  Held  of  battle.  Seven  hundred  of  them  were  hung 
up  as  a  trophy  in  the  church  of  Notre  Dame  de  Courtray  ; 
and,  as  the  cavaliers  of  that  day  wore  but  a  single  spur 
each,  these  vouched  to  God  for  the  violent  and  bloody  death 
of  seven  hundred  of  his  creatures. 

Page  9.    Saw  the  fight  at  Minnewater- 

When  the  inhabitants  of  Bruges  were  digging  a  canal 
at  Minnewater,  to  bring  the  waters  of  the  Lys  from  Deynze 
to  their  city,  they  were  attacked  and  routed  by  the  citizens 
of  Ghent,  whose  commerce  would  have  been  much  injured 
by  the  canal.  They  were  led  by  Jean  Lyons,  captain  of  a 
military  company  at  Ghent,  called  the  Chaperons  Blancs. 
He  had  great  sway  over  the  turbulent  populace,  who,  in 
those  prosperous  times  of  the  city,  gained  an  easy  liveli- 
hood by  laboring  two  or  three  days  in  the  week,  and  had 
the  remaining  four  or  five  to  devote  to  public  affairs.  The 
fight  at  Minnewater  was  followed  by  open  rebellion  against 
Louis  de  Maele,  the  Count  of  Flanders  and  Protector  of 
Bruges.  His  superb  chateau  of  Wondelghem  was  pillaged 
and  burnt ;  and  the  insurgents  forced  the  gates  of  Bruges, 
and  entered  in  triumph,  with  Lyons  mounted  at  their  head. 
A  few  days  afterwards  he  died  suddenly,  perhaps  by  poison. 


432 


NOTES. 


Meanwhile  the  insurgents  received  a  check  at  the  vil- 
lage of  Nevele ;  and  two  hundred  of  them  perished  in  the 
church,  which  was  burned  by  the  Count's  orders.  One  of 
the  chiefs,  Jean  de  Lannoy,  took  refuge  in  the  belfry. 
From  the  summit  of  the  tower  he  held  forth  his  purse  fill- 
ed with  gold,  and  begged  for  deliverance.  It  was  in  vain. 
His  enemies  cried  to  him  from  below  to  save  frimself  as  best 
he  might ;  and,  half  suffocated  with  smoke  and  flame,  he 
threw  himself  from  the  tower  and  perished  at  their  feet. 
Peace  was  soon  afterwards  established,  and  the  Count  re- 
tired to  faithful  Bruges. 

Page  9.    The  Golden  Dragon's  nest. 

The  Golden  Dragon,  taken  from  the  church  of  St.  So 
phia,  at  Constantinople,  in  one  of  the  Crusades,  and  placed 
on  the  belfry  of  Bruges,  was  afterwards  transported  to 
Ghent  by  Philip  van  Artevelde,  and  still  adorns  the  belfry 
of  that  city. 

The  inscription  on  the  alarm-bell  at  Ghent  is,  "Mynen 
naem  is  Roland;  als  ik  klep  is  er  brand,  and  als  ik  luy  is  er 
victorie  in  het  land"  My  name  is  Roland;  wThen  I  toll 
there  is  fire,  and  when  I  ring  there  is  victory  in  the  land. 


NOTES. 


433 


Pago  27.    That  their  great  imperial  city  stretched  its 

hand  through  every  clime. 
\  n  old  popular  proverb  of  the  town  runs  thus  :  — 

"  Niirnbcrg's  Hand 
Geht  durch  alle  Land." 
Nuremberg's  hand 
Goes  through  every  land. 

Page  27.  Sat  the  poet  Melchior  singing  Kaiser  Maxi- 
milian?s  praise. 

Melchior  Pfinzing  was  one  of  the  most  celebrated  Ger- 
man poets  of  the  sixteenth  century.  The  hero  of  his 
Tcuerdank  was  the  reigning  emperor,  Maximilian  ;  and  the 
poem  was  to  the  Germans  of  that  day  what  the  Orlando 
Furioso  was  to  the  Italians.  Maximilian  is  mentioned  be- 
fore, in  the  Belfry  of  Bruges.    See  page  429. 

Page  27.  In  the  church  of  sainted  Sebald  sleeps  enshrined 
his  holy  dust. 

The  tomb  of  Saint  Sebald,  in  the  church  which  bears 
his  name,  is  one  of  the  richest  works  of  art  in  Nuremberg. 
It  is  of  bronze,  and  was  cast  by  Peter  Vischer  and  his  sons. 

2? 


NOTES. 


who  labored  upon  it  thirteen  years.  It  is  adorned  with 
nearly  one  hundred  figures,  among  which  those  of  the 
Twelve  Apostles  are  conspicuous  for  size  and  beauty. 

Page  27.  In  the  church  of  sainted  Lawrence  stands  a 
pix  of  sculpture  rare. 

This  pix,  or  tabernacle  for  the  vessels  of  the  sacrament, 
is  by  the  hand  of  Adam  Kraft.  It  is  an  exquisite  piece  of 
sculpture  in  white  stone,  and  rises  to  the  height  of  sixty- 
four  feet.  It  stands  in  the  choir,  whose  richly  painted 
windows  cover  it  with  varied  colors. 

Page  27.    Wisest  of  the  Twelve  Wise  Masters. 

The  Twelve  Wise  Masters  was  the  title  of  the  original 
corporation  of  the  Mastersingers.  Hans  Sachs,  the  cob- 
bler of  Nuremberg,  though  not  one  of  the  original  Twelve, 
was  the  most  renowned  of  the  Mastersingers,  as  well  as  the 
most  voluminous.  He  flourished  in  the  sixteenth  century  ; 
and  left  behind  him  thirty-four  folio  volumes  of  manuscript, 
containing  two  hundred  and  eight  plays,  one  thousand  and 
seven  hundred  comic  tales,  and  between  four  and  five  thou- 
sand lyric  poems. 


NOTES, 


435 


Page  34.    As  in  Adam  Puschman's  song, 
Adam  Puschman,  in  his  poem  on  the  death  of  Hans 
Sachs,  describes  him  as  he  appeared  in  a  vision :  — 

"An  old  man, 
Gray  and  white,  and  dove-like, 
Who  had,  in  sooth,  a  great  beard, 
And  read  in  a  fair,  great  book, 
Beautiful  with  golden  clasps." 

Page  56.    The  Occultation  of  Orion. 

Astronomically  speaking,  this  title  is  incorrect ;  as  I  ap- 
ply to  a  constellation  what  can  properly  be  applied  to  some 
of  its  stars  only.  But  my  observation  is  made  from  the 
hill  of  song,  and  not  from  that  of  science  ;  and  will,  I  trust, 
be  found  sufficiently  accurate  for  the  present  purpose. 

Page  88.    Walter  von  der  Vogelweide. 

Walter  von  der  Yogelweide,  or  Bird-Meadow,  was  one 
of  the  principal  Minnesingers  of  the  thirteenth  century, 
fie  triumphed  over  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen  in  that  poetic 
contest  at  Wartburg  Castle,  known  in  literary  history  as 
the  War  of  Wartburg. 


436 


NOTES. 


Page  109.    Like  imperial  Charlemagne. 

Charlemagne  may  be  called  by  preeminence  the  monarch 
of  farmers.  According  to  the  German  tradition,  in  sea- 
sons of  great  abundance,  his  spirit  crosses  the  Rhine  on  a 
golden  bridge  at  Bingen,  and  blesses  the  cornfields  and  the 
vineyards.  During  his  lifetime,  he  did  not  disdain,  says 
Montesquieu,  "  to  sell  the  eggs  from  the  farm-yards  of  his 
domains,  and  the  superfluous  vegetables  of  his  gardens  ; 
while  he  distributed  among  his  people  the  wealth  of  the 
Lombards  and  the  immense  treasures  of  the  Huns." 

Page  322.    Behold,  at  last, 

Each  tall  and  tapering  mast 
Is  swung  into  its  place. 

I  wish  to  anticipate  a  criticism  on  this  passage  by 
stating,  that  sometimes,  though  not  usually,  vessels  are 
launched  fully  rigged  and  sparred.  I  have  availed  my- 
self of  the  exception,  as  better  suited  to  my  purposes  than 
the  general  rule  ;  but  the  reader  will  see  that  it  is  neither 
a  blunder  nor  a  poetic  license.  On  this  subject  a  friend  in 
Portland,  Maine,  writes  me  thus  :  — 

"  In  this  State,  and  also,  I  am  told,  in  New  York,  ships 


NOTES. 


437 


are  sometimes  rigged  upon  the  stocks,  in  order  to  save 
time,  or  to  make  a  show,  There  was  a  fine,  large  ship 
launched  last  summer  at  Ellsworth,  fully  rigged  and  spar- 
red. Some  years  ago  a  ship  was  launched  here,  with  her 
rigging,  spars,  sails,  and  cargo  aboard.  She  sailed  the 
next  day  and — was  never  heard  of  again!  I  hope  this 
will  not  be  the  fate  of  your  poem !  " 

Page  339.    Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert. 

"  When  the  wind  abated  and  the  vessels  were  near 
enough,  the  Admiral  was  seen  constantly  sitting  in  the 
stern,  with  a  book  in  his  hand.  On  the  9th  of  September 
he  was  seen  for  the  last  time,  and  was  heard  by  the  people 
of  the  Hind  to  say,  '  We  are  as  near  heaven  by  sea  as  by 
land.'  In  the  following  night,  the  lights  of  the  ship  sud- 
denly disappeared.  The  people  in  the  other  vessel  kept  a 
good  lookout  for  him  during  the  remainder  of  the  voyage. 
On  the  22d  of  September  they  arrived,  throagh  much  tem- 
pest and  perilrat  Falmouth.  But  nothing  more  was  seen 
or  heard  of  the  Admiral."  —  Belknap's  American  Biog- 
raphy, I.  203. 


438  NOTES. 

Page  393 .    The  Blind  Girl  of  Castel-  Cuille . 

Jasmin,  the  author  of  this  beautiful  poem,  is  to  the 
South  of  France  what  Burns  is  to  the  South  of  Scot- 
land, —  the  representative  of  the  heart  of  the  people,  —  one 
of  those  happy  bards  who  are  born  with  their  mouths  fall 
of  birds  (la  bouco  ple?w  d' aouzelous) .  He  has  written  his 
own  biography  in  a  poetic  form,  and  the  simple  narrative 
of  his  poverty,  his  struggles,  and  his  triumphs,  is  very 
touching.  He  still  lives  at  Agen,  on  the  Garonne;  and 
long  may  he  live  there  to  delight  his  native  land  with 
native  songs ! 

The  following  description  of  his  person  and  way  of  life 
is  taken  from  the  graphic  pages  of  "  Beam  and  the  Pyre- 
nees," by  Louisa  Stuart  Costello,  whose  charming  pen 
has  done  so  much  to  illustrate  the  French  provinces  and 
their  literature. 

"  At  the  entrance  of  the  promenade,  Du  Gravier,  is  a 
row  of  small  houses,  —  some  cafes,  others  shops,  the  indi- 
cation of  which  is  a  painted  cloth  placed  across  the  way, 
with  the  owner's  name  in  bright  gold  letters,  in  the  man- 
ner of  the  arcades  in  the  streets,  and  their  announcements. 
One  of  the  most  glaring  of  these  was,  we  observed,  a 


NOTES. 


439 


bright  blue  flag,  bordered  with  gold  ;  on  which,  in  large 
gold  letters,  appeared  the  name  of  'Jasmin,  Coiffeur. ' 
We  entered,  and  were  welcomed  by  a  smiling,  dark-eyed 
woman,  who  informed  us  that  her  husband  was  busy  at 
that  moment  dressing  a  customer's  hair,  but  he  was  de- 
sirous to  receive  us,  and  begged  we  would  walk  into  his 
parlour  at  the  back  of  the  shop. 

"  She  exhibited  to  us  a  laurel  crown  of  gold,  of  delicate 
workmanship,  sent  from  the  city  of  Clemence  Isaure, 
Toulouse,  to  the  poet ;  who  will  probably  one  day  take 
his  place  in  the  capitoul.  Next  came  a  golden  cup,  with 
an  inscription  in  his  honor,  given  by  the  citizens  of 
Auch  ;  a  gold  watch,  chain,  and  seals,  sent  by  the  king, 
Louis  Philippe ;  an  emerald  ring  worn  and  presented  by 
the  lamented  Duke  of  Orleans ;  a  pearl  pin,  by  the  grace- 
ful Duchess,  who,  on  the  poet's  visit  to  Paris  accompanied 
by  his  son,  received  him  in  the  words  he  puts  into  the 
mouth  6f  Henri  Quatre  :  — 

*  Brabes  Gaseous ! 
A  moun  amou  per  bous  aou  dibes  creyre : 
Benes !  benes  !  ey  plaze  de  bous  beyre : 

Aproucha  bous ! ' 


440 


NOT  ES. 


A  fine  service  of  linen,  the  offering  of  the  town  of  Pau, 
after  its  citizens  had  given  fetes  in  his  honor,  and  loaded 
him  with  caresses  and  praises ;  and  nicknacks  and  jewels 
of  all  descriptions  offered  to  him  by  lady-ambassadresses, 
and  great  lords  ;  English  '  misses  '  and  '  miladis  1 ;  and 
French,  and  foreigners  of  all  nations  who  did  or  did  not 
understand  Gascon. 

"  All  this,  though  startling,  was  not  convincing;  Jas- 
min, the  barber,  might  only  be  a  fashion,  a.  furore,  a  ca- 
price, after  all ;  and  it  was  evident  that  he  knew  how  to 
get  up  a  scene  well.  When  we  had  become  nearly  tired 
of  looking  over  these  tributes  to  his  genius,  the  door 
opened,  and  the  poet  himself  appeared.  His  manner  was 
free  and  unembarrassed,  well-bred,  and  lively ;  he  received 
our  compliments  naturally,  and  like  one  accustomed  to 
homage ;  said  he  was  ill,  and  unfortunately  too  hoarse  to 
read  any  thing  to  us,  or  should  have  been  delighted  to  do 
so.  He  spoke  with  a  broad  Gascon  accent,  and  very  rap-idly 
and  eloquently ;  ran  over  the  story  of  his  successes ;  told 
us  that  his  grandfather  had  been  a  beggar,  and  all  his 
family  very  poor ;  that  he  was  now  as  rich  as  he  wished  to 
be ;  his  son  placed  in  a  good  position  at  Nantes ;  then 


NOTES. 


441 


showed  us  his  son's  picture,  and  spoke  of  his  disposition, 
to  which  his  brisk  little  wife  added,  that,  though  no  fool, 
he  had  not  his  father's  genius,  to  which  truth  Jasmin 
assented  as  a  matter  of  course.  I  told  him  of  having  seen 
mention  made  of  him  in  an  English  review ;  which  he 
said  had  been  sent  him  by  Lord  Durham,  who  had  paid 
him  a  visit ;  and  I  then  spoke  of  4  Me  cal  mouri '  as  known 
to  me.  This  was  enough  to  make  him  forget  his  hoarse- 
ness and  every  other  evil :  it  would  never  do  for  me  to 
imagine  that  that  little  song  was  his  best  composition  ;  it 
was  merely  his  first ;  he  must  try  to  read  to  me  a  little  of 
'  L'Abuglo,'  —  a  few  verses  of  4  Frangouneto  '  ;  —  '  You 
will  be  charmed,'  said  he ;  '  but  if  I  were  well,  and  you 
would  give  me  the  pleasure  of  your  company  for  some 
time,  if  you  were  not  merely  running  through  Agen,  I 
would  kill  you  with  weeping, — I  would  make  you  die 
with  distress  for  my  poor  Margarido, — my  pretty  Fran- 
^ouneto ! ' 

"  He  caught  up  two  copies  of  his  book,  from  a  pile 
lying  on  the  table,  and  making  us  sit  close  to  him,  he 
pointed  out  the  French  translation  on  one  side,  which  he 
told  us  to  follow  while  he  read  in  Gascon.    He  began  in  a 


442 


NOTES. 


rich,  soft  voice,  and  as  he  advanced,  the  surprise  of  Hamlet 
on  hearing  the  player-king  recite  the  disasters  of  Hecuba 
was  but  a  type  of  ours,  to  find  ourselves  carried  away  by 
the  spell  of  his  enthusiasm.  His  eyes  swam  in  tears ;  he 
became  pale  and  red  ;  he  trembled  ;  he  recovered  himself; 
his  face  was  now  joyous,  now  exulting,  gay,  jocose ;  in 
fact,  he  was  twenty  actors  in  one ;  he  rang  the  changes 
from  Rachel  to  Bouffe ;  and  he  finished  by  delighting  us, 
besides  beguiling  us  of  our  tears,  and  overwhelming  us 
with  astonishment. 

"  He  would  have  been  a  treasure  on  the  stage ;  for  he 
is  still,  though  his  first  youth  is  past,  remarkably  good- 
looking  and  striking  ;  with  black,  sparkling  eyes,  of  in- 
tense expression  ;  a  fine,  ruddy  complexion  ;  a  countenance 
of  wondrous  mobility  ;  a  good  figure  ;  and  action  full  of  fire 
and  grace  ;  he  has  handsome  hands,  which  he  uses  with  in- 
finite effect ;  and,  on  the  whole,  he  is  the  best  actor  of  the 
kind  I  ever  saw.  I  could  now  quite  understand  what  a 
troubadour  or  jongleur  might  be,  and  I  look  upon  Jasmin 
as  a  revived  specimen  of  that  extinct  race.  Such  as  he  is 
might  have  been  Gaucelm  Faidit,  of  Avignon,  the  friend 
of  Ccsur  de  Lion,  who  lamented  the  death  of  the  hero  in 


NOTES. 


443 


such  moving  strains ;  such  might  have  been  Bernard  de 
Ventadour,  who  sang  the  praises  of  Queen  Elinore's 
beauty;  such  Geoffrey  Rudel,  of  Blaye,  on  his  own  Ga- 
ronne ;  such  the  wild  Vidal :  certain  it  is,  that  none  of  these 
troubadours  of  old  could  more  move,  by  their  singing  or 
reciting,  than  Jasmin,  in  whom  all  their  long-smothered 
fire  and  traditional  magic  seems  reillumined. 

"We  found  we  had  stayed  hours  instead  of  minutes 
with  the  poet ;  but  he  would  not  hear  of  any  apology,  — 
only  regretted  that  his  voice  was  so  out  of  tune,  in  conse- 
quence of  a  violent  cold,  under  which  he  was  really  labor- 
ing, and  hoped  to  see  us  again.  He  told  us  our  country- 
women of  Pau  had  laden  him  with  kindness  and  attention, 
and  spoke  with  such  enthusiasm  of  the  beauty  of  certain 
'  misses,'  that  I  feared  his  little  wife  would  feel  somewhat 
piqued  ;  bat,  on  the  contrary,  she  stood  by,  smiling  and 
happy,  and  enjoying  the  stories  of  his  triumphs.  I  re 
marked  that  he  had  restored  the  poetry  of  the  troubadours  ; 
asked  him  if  he  knew  their  songs  ;  and  said  he  was  worthy 
to  stand  at  their  head.  4 1  am,  indeed,  a  troubadour,'  said 
he,  with  energy ;  '  but  I  am  far  beyond  them  all ,  they 
were  but  beginners  ;  they  never  composed  a  poem  like  my 


444 


NOTES. 


Franc/mneto !  there  are  no  poets  in  France  now,  —  there 
cannot  be ;  the  language  does  not  admit  of  it ;  where  is 
the  fire,  the  spirit,  the  expression,  the  tenderness,  the  force 
of  the  Gascon  1  French  is  but  the  ladder  to  reach  to  the 
first  floor  of  Gascon,  —  how  can  you  get  up  to  a  height 
except  by  a  ladder !  ' 

"  I  returned  by  Agen,  after  an  absence  in  the  Pyrenees 
of  some  months,  and  renewed  my  acquaintance  with  Jas- 
min and  his  dark-eyed  wife.  I  did  not  expect  that  I  should 
be  recognized ;  but  the  moment  I  entered  the  little  shop  I 
was  hailed  as  an  old  friend.  '  Ah ! '  cried  Jasmin,  1  enfin 
la  voila  encore!'  I  could  not  but  be  flattered  by  this 
recollection,  but  soon  found  it  was  less  on  my  own  account 
that  I  was  thus  welcomed,  than  because  a  circumstance 
had  occurred  to  the  poet  which  he  thought  I  could  perhaps 
explain.  He  produced  several  French  newspapers,  in 
which  he  pointed  out  to  me  an  article  headed  '  Jasmin  a 
Londres  '  ;  being  a  translation  of  certain  notices  of  him- 
self, which  had  appeared  in  a  leading  English  literary 
journal.  He  had,  he  said,  been  informed  of  the  honor 
done  him  by  numerous  friends,  and  assured  me  his  fame 


NOTES. 


445 


had  been  much  spread  by  this  means ;  and  he  was  so  de- 
lighted on  the  occasion,  that  he  had  resolved  to  learn  Eng- 
lish, in  order  that  he  might  judge  of  the  translations  from 
his  works,  which,  he  had  been  told,  were  well  done.  1 
enjoyed  his  surprise,  while  I  informed  him  that  I  knew 
who  was  the  reviewer  and  translator ;  and  explained  the 
reason  for  the  verses  giving  pleasure  in  an  English  dress 
to  be  the  superior  simplicity  of  the  English  language  over 
modern  French,  for  which  he  has  a  great  contempt,  as 
unfitted  for  lyrical  composition.  He  inquired  of  me  re- 
specting Burns,  to  whom  he  had  been  likened ;  and  begged 
me  to  tell  him  something  of  Moore.  The  delight  of  him- 
self and  his  wife  was  amusing,  at  having  discovered  a 
secret  which  had  puzzled  them  so  long. 

"  He  had  a  thousand  things  to  tell  me  ;  in  particular, 
that  he  had  only  the  day  before  received  a  letter  from  the 
Duchess  of  Orleans,  informing  him  that  she  had  ordered  a 
medal  of  her  late  husband  to  be  struck,  the  first  of  which 
would  be  sent  to  him  :  she  also  announced  to  him  the 
agreeable  news  of  the  king  having  granted  him  a  pension 
of  a  thousand  francs.  He  smiled  and  wept  by  turns,  as 
he  told  all  this ;  and  declared,  much  as  he  was  elated  at 


446 


NOTES. 


the  possession  of  a  sum  which  made  him  a  rich  man  for 
life,  the  kindness  of  the  Duchess  gratified  him  even 
more. 

"  He  then  made  us  sit  down  while  he  read  us  two  new 
poems ;  both  charming,  and  full  of  grace  and  ndivett ;  and 
one  very  affecting,  being  an  address  to  the  king,  alluding 
to  the  death  of  his  son.  As  he  read,  his  wife  stood  by, 
and  fearing  we  did  not  quite  comprehend  his  language, 
she  made  a  remark  to  that  effect :  to  which  he  answered 
impatiently,  '  Nonsense,  —  don't  you  see  they  are  in  tears.' 
This  was  unanswerable ;  and  we  were  allowed  to  hear  the 
poem  to  the  end ;  and  I  certainly  never  listened  to  any 
thing  more  feelingly  and  energetically  delivered. 

"  We  had  much  conversation,  for  he  was  anxious  to 
detain  us,  and,  in  the  course  of  it,  he  told  me  that  he  had 
been  by  some  accused  of  vanity.  4  0,'  he  rejoined, 
4  what  would  you  have  !  I  am  a  child  of  nature,  and  can- 
not conceal  my  feelings ;  the  only  difference  between  me 
and  a  man  of  refinement  is,  that  he  knows  how  to  conceal 
his  vanity  and  exultation  at  success,  which  I  let  every 
body  see.'  "  —  Btarn  and  the  Pyrenees,  I.  369,  et  seq. 


NOTES. 


447 


Page  420.    A  Christmas  Carol. 

The  following  description  of  Christmas  in  Burgundy 
is  from  M.  Fertiault's  Coup  d'oeil  sur  les  Noels  en 
Bourgogne,  prefixed  to  the  Paris  edition  of  Les  Noels 
Bourguignons  de  Bernard  de  la  Monnoye  (Gui  Barozai), 
1842. 

"  Every  year,  at  the  approach  of  Advent,  people  refresh 
their  memories,  clear  their  throats,  and  begin  preluding,  in 
the  long  evenings  by  the  fireside,  those  carols  whose 
invariable  and  eternal  theme  is  the  coming  of  the  Mes- 
siah. They  take  from  old  closets  pamphlets,  little  col- 
lections begrimed  with  dust  and  smoke,  to  which  the 
press,  and  sometimes  the  pen,  has  consigned  these  songs ; 
and  as  soon  as  the  first  Sunday  of  Advent  sounds,  they 
gossip,  they  gad  about,  they  sit  together  by  the  fireside, 
sometimes  at  one  house,  sometimes  at  another,  taking 
turns  in  paying  for  the  chestnuts  and  white  wine,  but  sing- 
ing with  one  common  voice  the  grotesque  praises  of  the 
Little  Jesus. 0 There  are  very  few  villages  even,  which, 
during  all  the  evenings  of  Advent,  do  not  hear  some 
of  these  curious  canticles  shouted  in  their  streets,  to 
the  nasal  drone  of  bagpipes.    In  this  case  the  minstrel 


448 


NOTES. 


comes  as  a  reinforcement  to  the  singers  at  the  fireside  , 
he  brings  and  adds  his  dose  of  joy  (spontaneous  or  mer- 
cenary, it  matters  little  which)  to  the  joy  which  breathes 
around  the  hearth-stone  ;  and  when  the  voices  vibrate  and 
resound,  one  voice  more  is  always  welcome.  There,  it  is 
not  the  purity  of  the  notes  which  makes  the  concert,  but 
the  quantity,  —  non  qualilas,  sed  quantitas ;  then,  (to  finish 
at  once  with  the  minstrel,)  when  the  Saviour  has  at  length 
been  born  in  the  manger,  and  the  beautiful  Christmas  Eve 
is  passed,  the  rustic  piper  makes  his  round  among  the 
houses,  where  every  one  compliments  and  thanks  him,  and, 
moreover,  gives  him  in  small  coin  the  price  of  the  shrill 
notes  with  which  he  has  enlivened  the  evening  entertain- 
ments. 

"  More  or  less,  until  Christmas  Eve,  all  goes  on  in  this 
way  among  our  devout  singers,  with  the  difference  of 
some  gallons  of  wine  or  some  hundreds  of  chestnuts. 
But  this  famous  eve  once  come,  the  scale  is  pitched  upon 
a  higher  key  ,  the  closing  evening  must  be  a  memorable 
one.  The  toilet  is  begun  at  nightfall ;  then  comes  the 
hour  of  supper,  admonishing  divers  appetites;  and  groups, 
as  numerous  as  possible,  are  formed  to  take  together  this 


NOTES. 


449 


comfortable  evening  repast.  The  supper  finished,  a  circle 
gathers  around  the  hearth,  which  is  arranged  and  set  in 
order  this  evening  after  a  particular  fashion,  and  which  at 
a  later  hour  of  the  night  is  to  become  the  object  of  special 
interest  to  the  children.  On  the  burning  brands  an  enor- 
mous log  has  been  placed.  This  log  assuredly  does  not 
change  its  nature,  but  it  changes  its  name  during  this 
evening:  it  is  called  the  Suche  (the  Yule-log).  'Look 
you,'  say  they  to  the  children,  8  if  you  are  good  this 
evening,  Noel '  (for  with  children  one  must  always  per- 
sonify) '  will  rain  down  sugar-plums  in  the  night. '  And 
the  children  sit  demurely,  keeping  as  quiet  as  their  tur- 
bulent little  natures  will  permit.  The  groups  of  older 
persons,  not  always  as  orderly  as  the  children,  seize  this 
good  opportunity  to  surrender  themselves  with  merry 
hearts  and  boisterous  voices  to  the  chanted  worship  of  the 
miraculous  Noel.  For  this  final  solemnity,  they  have 
kept  the  most  powerful,  the  most  enthusiastic,  the  most 
electrifying  carols.  Noel!  Noel!  Noel!  This  magic 
word  resounds  on  all  sides ;  it  seasons  every  sauce,  it  is 
served  up  with  every  course.  Of  the  thousands  of  can- 
ticles which  are  heard  on  this  famous  eve,  ninety-nine 
29 


450 


NOTES. 


in  a  hundred  begin  and  end  with  this  word ;  which  is,  one 
may  say,  their  Alpha  and  Omega,  their  crown  and  foot- 
stool. This  last  evening,  the  merry-making  is  prolonged. 
Instead  of  retiring  at  ten  or  eleven  o'clock,  as  is  generally 
done  on  all  the  preceding  evenings,  they  wait  for  the  stroke 
of  midnight:  this  word  sufficiently  proclaims  to  what 
ceremony  they  are  going  to  repair.  For  ten  minutes  or 
a  quarter  of  an  hour,  the  bells  have  been  calling  the  faith- 
ful with  a  triple-bob-major ;  and  each  one,  furnished  with 
a  little  taper  streaked  with  various  colors,  (the  Christmas 
Candle,)  goes  through  the  crowded  streets,  where  the 
lanterns  are  dancing  like  Will-o'-the-Wisps,  at  the  impa- 
tient summons  of  the  multitudinous  chimes.  It  is  the  Mid- 
night Mass.  Once  inside  the  church,  they  hear  with  more 
or  less  piety  the  Mass,  emblematic  of  the  coming  of  the 
Messiah.  Then  in  tumult  and  great  haste  they  return 
homeward,  always  in  numerous  groups ;  they  salute  the 
Yule-log ;  they  pay  homage  to  the  hearth ;  they  sit  down 
at  table ;  and,  amid  songs  which  reverberate  louder  than 
ever,  make  this  meal  of  after-Christmas,  so  long  looked 
for,  so  cherished,  so  joyous,  so  noisy,  and  which  it  has 
been  thought  fit  to  call,  we  hardly  know  why,  Rossignon. 


NOTES. 


451 


The  supper  eaten  at  nightfall  is  no  impediment,  as  you 
may  imagine,  to  the  appetite's  returning ;  above  all,  if  the 
going  to  and  from  church  has  made  the  devout  eaters  fee] 
some  little  shafts  of  the  sharp  and  biting  north-wind. 
Rossignon  then  goes  on  merrily,  —  sometimes  far  into  the 
morning  hours ;  but,  nevertheless,  gradually  throats  grow 
hoarse,  stomachs  are  filled,  the  Yule-log  burns  out,  and 
at  last  the  hour  arrives  when  each  one,  as  best  he  may, 
regains  his  domicile  and  his  bed,  and  puts  with  himself  be- 
tween the  sheets  the  material  for  a  good  sore-throat,  or  a 
good  indigestion,  for  the  morrow.  Previous  to  this,  care 
nas  been  taken  to  place  in  the  slippers,  or  wooden  shoes,  of 
the  children,  the  sugar-plums,  which  shall  be  for  them,  on 
their  waking,  the  welcome  fruits  of  the  Christmas  log." 

In  the  Glossary,  the  Suche,  or  Yule-log,  is  thus  de- 
fined :  — 

"  This  is  a  huge  log,  which  is  placed  on  the  file  on 
Christmas  Eve,  and  which  in  Burgundy  is  called,  on  this 
account/  lai  Suche  de  Noei.  Then  the  father  of  the  family, 
particularly  among  the  middle  classes,  sings  solemnly 
Christmas  carols  with  his  wife  and  children,  the  smallest 
of  whom  he  sends  into  the  corner  to  pray  that  the  Y  ule- 


452 


NOTES. 


log  may  bear  him  some  sugar-plums.  Meanwhile,  little 
parcels  of  them  are  placed  under  each  end  of  the  log, 
and  the  children  come  and  pick  them  up,  believing,  ii? 
good  faith,  that  the  great  log  hat,  borne  them." 


THE 


END. 


/  1 

A. 


v  t 


